


Confession Rehearsal

by slorpstoes



Category: uhhhhhhhhhhh - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:10:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slorpstoes/pseuds/slorpstoes
Summary: fuck





	1. The Beginning of a Big Mistake

**AMY**

It debuts as a letter, Calvin says, slipped into his rundown locker. Lighting dim, rose petals a-flutter, he’s the butt-end of a faithful call after class— he sways in suspense! There she is, he cries! This super cute girl drops her magnum heart, right into his hands!

A classic.

Well, most unfortunately for him, we’re seated _here_ , in Blanksville’s stupid half-oval, with not a single romantic setting in sight. Case in point: I start to fucking wheeze.

Cal slaps my back and I can’t tell if it’s to stop me from dying or if it’s because he hates me.

“ _Fuck_ , Amy, you don’t have to be such a bitch.” He gives me another Slap’n The Back, and my last wheeze squeals like seals mating.

“You spit bullshit like it’s a job,” I scoff. “I’m losing trust—losing trust, I say.”

“Cue the conspiracists—it’s true, Amy.”

“Okay…” I plop Cal down onto the grass and slap on this stupid interviewer shtick. “Right.” Right. “So, Mr. Calvin Oliver, if what you are saying is indeed true – which I personally think is very unlikely, but I will try my best to stay unbiased – why did you turn her down?” I raise a cocky eyebrow, securing a victory within the curves of a professional interviewer’s smile.

Cal’s eyes do a dance. Busted? Probably. “W-Well,” he says, “seeing as entrance exams are coming up, I couldn’t _possibly_ waste studying time adhering to a girl’s whims…”

Oh, my! ‘Adhering’! ‘Whims’!! What big words you have, Mr. Wolf!!

I nod in mock amusement. Cal’s like a fucking gumball machine, if a gumball machine was stacked to the brim with bullshit, and I’m gonna prove it by—

Oh. Shit.

“W-Woahh, your face’s really…” I scramble around in the darkness of my headspace to find the words, “… uh, tomato-ified.”

_Yeah._

Cal brings a bashful hand to his bashful face. “O-Oh?” he stammers. “T-That’s a s-stupid way to say red.”

My heart shoots off in a million different directions.

_He’scutehe’scutehe’scute._

Not important! Right now! (I mean, Cal being a Huge Cutie is always important, but, uh, it’s not exactly top of my agenda.)

I silence my pig scream.

What _is_ important? Calvin Oliver? Being a romantic? Yikes.

He’s spitting some more bullshit, being all ‘romance is for nerds’, but then I see his face and it’s all ‘ouch, she was kinda cute’.

I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face with a wet fish.

Cal isn’t interested in, like, uh, love, right? No. Most definitely not. Right? Yeah. _Yeah, right_. Was that sarcasm? Are you really being sarcastic with me right now? We can’t afford to go against each other.

I do my research! I a-a-a-analyse! I stay up late at night, sobbing. There is absolutely no way I’m mistaken.

_But do you know? Do you really know?_

… I mean. Sure. Cal’s an Artful Dodger. I ask him a question and he runs. I try my darn best to ask him if he’s got any case of the _luh_ - _luh_ -love, but then he bounds off to the bathroom. A-a-a-always.

Once I even followed him in secret but all I discovered was that he’s lactose intolerant.

Cal and I never really talk about love, or, like, even anything deep at all, to be honest. I can’t remember half the things we actually talk about. Besides, only horribly sad and lonely people hardcore investigate, and I made a New Year’s resolution to stop being so clingy.

Besides besides, I have other things to do. Currently my bucket-list consists of actually getting good at Mario Kart, and apparently also _worrying about dying alone_ because my small heart is suddenly seized by this wave of anxiety and more anxiety and something else that’s probably still **_anxiety_**. 

He may have turned down the confession this time, but who knows what could happen the next? What if an _exceptionally_ cute and smart and funny girl is next? What if an _extremely_ cute and smart and funny and **HOT** dude is next?? I’m none of those! A boy? A hot, hot boy?

Amy Adams is an ugly. A real big ugly.

I laugh. I’m gonna take a swandive off the London Bridge.

“What’s funny this time, jackass?” I can feel Cal’s stare bore into my back.

“Nothin’.” I drape my fingers over his smooth, smooth McCurls. “You jealous? You jealous you’ll never be funny enough to make me laugh?”

“Nah, dude.” He looks strangely proud. “I make you laugh, like, all the time. I’m Amy Adams’ walking joke.”

“There’s a difference between laughing _with_ you and laughing _at_ you.”

Cal rolls his eyes, slowly making his way off the ground. “Whatever. I’ll see you after school.”

I don’t even get the chance to fit in a remark before the weight of both gravity and his schoolbag knock him back down. Cal refuses to look at me and my beady eyes.

“I’ll see _you_ after school.” I pull him back up, but it’s not, like, cool _or_ dramatic because I take so long. “Dude, are you fat or am I just weak?”

“Probably both.”


	2. Battle Strategy

**AMY**

3pm… not sharp, because it’s actually 3:12. I look up at Cal’s back. We’re standing here in this kinda dodgy area of the school – like the dark alleyways of Blanksville – and, sure, it’s not the best place to be, but it stays out of student radar. Then you’d be asking, “Oh, so how’s _Cal_ here?” and the answer to that is a simple: “Follow me.”

Built up tension, and now it’s time for the crescendo. Besides, I’ve hyped this up so much that my simple confession might as well be the premier for Shrek 5.

I’m gonna set an example. I’m gonna be the hero this world never knew it needed.

_Yeah, right._

Cool, talk the talk, but can you walk the walk? Do you even have the courage to take a small step?

I grip my shirt. My heart thumps like a lead drum. My knees, they rest not-so-comfortably underneath my track pants, they’re knocking against one another relentlessly. Spaghetti legs is a real condition, I tell myself.

Spaghetti legs _is_ a real condition, and I am about to pass out.

What am I supposed to do? _Should_ I do it? Should I really do it? I can wait until tomorrow. I can wait until, uh, never. I can just never do it. I can just change my name and ride up to Seattle.

Alternate note: do I even like him? Really? Really and truly? What if I’m just being delusional and I don’t actually like him and our relationship ends up like one of those K-dramas—toxic and fake?? Lust or love? How do I lie detect myself?

Having a crush is so hard… Maybe I should just hide with the army underground until these feelings pass over. That’s a solid plan, let’s do it.

_No, no, no. Breathe. Breathe, dammit._

_In, two, three. Out, two, three. In, two, five. Out, four, nine._

_In— what?_

I take another deep breath, and my insignificant and totally irrelevant worries crawl back into the sin cave. It kinda feels like there’s a raccoon buried in my bloodstream, surging through my legs. My stomach is churning. _Urgh_. This kind of stuff always has the worst timing.

Everyone knows that, when it comes to _romance_ , timing is crucial. On a ship, you must plant your flag and take command!

All I need is a moment of courage. On the other hand, regret will last a lifetime.

By Scout’s Honour, I will make this ship sail. The ship—AmyCal? Calmy? Whatever. I’ll get around to it.

“Hey there, Cal _vin_ , got a minute?” I say, and I hope to all that is good that I don’t sound too strained.

Cal turns around slowly. His puzzled eyes meet mine. “What’re you being so formal for?”

Oooh, if he thinks _that’s_ formal, he’s got a thing or two coming.

I tighten my posture, assure complete vocal stability, and my fists are clenched. _Okayokayokayokayokayokayokay_. I can’t tell if I’m feeling fear or adrenaline.

 _✩_ _Ready? Okay! Here! We! Go!_ _✩_

“Sorry it’s sudden, but…”

Does Cal look nervous? I don’t know. All I know is that tension’s warped around the atmosphere like fence wire. And in that space, something bubbling in my throat can’t keep itself from escaping my lips any longer.

 

“I’ve liked you for a really long time now!”

 

Okay. Brilliant. I said it. I finally said it. The deed has been done. The irreversible has been committed. This is it. This is the be-all or end-all. This is the end.

Good? Is this good? I don’t know. I want to scream, but that’d be kinda weird, wouldn’t it? Someone confesses to you, and then they let out an enraged shriek? Yeah, that’d be super weird.

I don’t need a mirror to know how stupidly tomato-ified I look. My face is burning and the raccoon is travelling down my arms, seeking to take over the rest of my corrupted, trembling carcass.

_Aaaaaaaand I’m fucked. Absolutely and utterly fucked._

The silence is practically melting my head. I don’t look at him. Although it’s definitely, definitely impossible, I’m starting to wonder if Cal can hear my heart drumming so wildly in my ears.

I eventually decide to lift my face again, and see him still completely frozen.

Our eyes meet in an instant.

God, it’s like a really bad random scenario generator. The Class Trash™ has just laid out her heart for you—what do you do??!?!

What _do_ you do? I haven’t a clue. And apparently neither does Cal, because his face is still red and dazed, and I can see his small irises swimming in pools of something that looks a bit like both disgust and confusion. All completely understandable.

I’m kinda concerned I killed him.

He practically breathes out his next word:

“… Huh?”

Oh. My god. Is he embarrassed? I think his face’s invented a new shade of red.

Well, I’m at a complete loss for words. I have to hack up something. He can’t just run away this time. I can’t just run away this time. I must make this a suitable season finale for my arc with Cal, whether God likes it or not.

I try to search around for the words – or even a _single_ word – but I’m hit with a fatal case of nervous motormouth and I end up saying something like, “Juh… Juh…!”, sounding like a toddler learning its vowels.

Cal tilts his head. “Juh?”

Head tilt! _Head tilt_! That’s _illegal_! He can’t do that! My heart’s gonna rip out of my chest and fucking eat him.

I can’t think straight – well, actually, being so straight is _keeping_ me from thinking – and I know it. I know it well. At this rate, I’ll end up shitting out something stupid enough to be held against me ’til the end of time.

Which means it’s time to, uh, bolt. Cal’s not the only Artful Dodger lurking the streets.

“… Just kiddin’! There’s no way that’d actually be true!”

_I’ve really done it this time._

“Did I get ya good? Did I?”

 _I can see it now_ _…_ _‘She died as she lived_ _…_ _Hah! Virgin!’_

“Starstruck? For _me_?”

 _However, that’s just another strategy_ _…_ _I’ll definitely taste the fruit of success_ _…_ _!_

As someone smart – like, uh, Isaac Newton – would say, _all’s fair in love and war_. A war of egos… wielding weapons of mass self-destruction. That’s right! I’m not running away from the enemy: I’m buying time for the next command!

More specifically, this afternoon’s confession rehearsal is merely a surprise attack.

 

_Status: huge success._

 

Cal’s eyes widen, and he starts to blink like there’s been a chainsaw lobbed into his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, then returns my look with a look of his own. But it’s sharper. I’m, like, 2% scared.

“Amy… You’re really…”

I heave a sigh of relief I’m not aware I was holding. Foe Calvin Oliver is shocked _and_ embarrassed… What a combo! I am in the clear!

 _Good_ _…_ _He thinks it’s just a joke_ _…_ _right?_

Ignore the pain! Let’s go!!

I crack a smile.

“That was a confession _rehearsal_ , you see,” I say.

Chainsaw to monster truck. Looks painful. “Huh? _Rehearsal_?”

I nod with the small bouts of enthusiasm I have packed up in my gut. “ _Soooo_ — was I cute? Did your heart skip a beat?” I follow the trails of a failing conversation, and smile blankly at him. Cal stares back with this sort of deadness in his eyes.

Ouch. Feels like an uppercut from LeBron James. Use a recovery skill!

I look a bit like Mum at her first parent-teacher meeting. Amy~ Amy~ Dead~ or~ Alive~

“C’mon, dude…” I hazard, “lighten up!”

And I really need to learn how to _shut_ up.

Cal rolls his eyes into oblivion. “So, who’re you doing the real thing with?”

“The confession?”

“No shit,” he says. “The fact that you’re rehearsing means that there’s someone else.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Not me.”

A breath gets stuck on its way up and I try not to start choking. Mixed feelings brew around in my brain. He believed my weak lie so easily, it almost seems unreal. Sure, I’m glad I’m so good at lying, but it also means that the road from here on to my stupid teenage crush has now become a bumpy, awkward ride with a bamboozled Amy and a confused Calvin strapped recklessly to the seats.

I face Cal again and slap him in the shoulder with a small balled fist. I don’t think he really feels it at all. I don’t, either.

“Yeah, sure, I’m just gonna _tell_ you who I like, ’cause that’s how it works.”

Cal lifts my fist off his shoulder. “Well, is it?”

“No.” I slap him again. “Find out yourself, I don’t know. It’s like an adventure.”

“Ugh.” He groans. “That’s a lot of work.”

I give him disappointed adult eyes. “Hey, c’mon…” I croon, stroking the offending shoulder. “Just help me practice, ’kay? Doesn’t matter who it is.” Well, _yeah_ , it does. That’s the whole point, but I say it so convincingly I almost believe it myself.

Cal’s eyes close, like a monk thinking over the world’s mysteries. Then, out tumbles the words: “In return, treat me to Macca’s.”

That has to be the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Bull. Shit.”

He taps his temple. “A cheap price for the golden opportunity to practice with someone as fine as I, don’t you think?”

“Whatever, dude.”

 

I see Cal off and I walk home and the only thought that lingers around in my head is: “You didn’t do it.”

I didn’t. I didn’t, because I’m a coward. I didn’t, because I fucked up, again.

Fuck.

I should be pissed, right?  

But, well… I’m weirdly relieved. It’s like I couldn’t _handle_ anything else; like this is just the way the world works for me and what do you know, it worked again. Failure justifies all my planning and worrying. I was right. I couldn’t do it. It’s almost like I got away with something.

It’s kinda poetic, but mostly painful.

“It doesn’t matter, Amy. Who cares? I don’t. It’s just a stupid crush. I don’t care at all.”

I look at the sky, and the sun stares back. It blares its crimson colour at me, like a warning.

Or maybe an accusation.


	3. Retreat!

**AMY**

_Ding! Ding! Ding!_

The afterschool bell rings and the whole class explodes into a frenzy of laughter and screaming. I tune in to hear Jenna, the Coolest girl in class, start talking about a Halloween party at her place even though Halloween was about five months ago. I sit up feeling like I just dunked my head into a bottle of mace.

 _Yeah_ _…_ _Totally slept through maths today._

I glance around the classroom. Don’t think anyone noticed. (Don’t think anyone cares.)

Uhh, I’m gonna say I at least _tried_ to get a good amount of sleep last night, but, honestly? Having a normal sleep schedule is so awkward.

I think I woke up seven times within one night. I took a shower at 3am but forgot to bring a towel, so I had to walk sopping wet up to my room, and then the carpet got all damp and disgusting, so then I had to go back downstairs for some drying cloths, and then Mum woke up and found me naked in the kitchen cabinet and begged me to go to sleep.

And! To make things worse! It’s like my appetite has completely vanished! My poor, poor stomach is screaming its poor little throat dry, but nothing looks good at all… I’m so hungry! Hungry? Hungary!! Hunkie! Hunchy!!

Is this what people call being ‘lovesick’? Hhhhhhngg… I wish it was an actual recognised illness… then I could get out of school…

‘Madam, I’m afraid to report that your daughter has fallen ill to… _lovesickness_.’

‘Oh no! Is it bad, doc?’

‘It’s nothing too serious… but she may have to stay at home for a few weeks.’

Then, BOOM! I wouldn’t have to go outside, I’d get to spend all day in bed, and Mum would make me soup with dinosaur noodles.

_Lovesick, huh…_

Well, rehearsal or not, I finally confessed yesterday.

Sure, yeah, okay—I may have played it off as a joke, my heart may be suffering from permanent emotional damage, my crush may think I’m a flimsy asshole, but I still did it. Means I didn’t sit on my ass, and that’s all that counts. Right?

Right.

“Cal!” Evan Iston shrieks from the doorway. He sounds like a squeaky toy on helium. “Are we headed straight for the clubroom?”

I follow Evan’s off-brand Converse over to Cal’s desk. I think, if there was an award for buying the most dodgy, discount shit, Evan would not only take the cake, but he would’ve also been the one who baked it. I’m convinced he actually _lives_ in the Good Sammy’s donation bins.

Cal waves him off. “Actually, I have to stop by the faculty room, so you and Frazer go ahead first.”

“You’re going to ask about the summer report, right?” Frazer – angsty, teenage raven hair, you’ll know him when you see him – eyes the empty folder wearily. “In that case, we’ll tag along.”

“Yeah.” Evan makes a swift nod and takes Cal’s hand in his.

“O _h_ , E _van_!” Cal explodes, hand to heart, voice to hell, like he’s either being sucked off or sentenced to prison. “Not in pub _lic_!”

His poor partner in unsynchronised crime drops his hand immediately.

The criminal draws the hand to his cheek. “Oh… but I liked the feeling of your warm, tender hand in mi—”

“Restraining order or murder? You choose.”

Cal drops the act. “Yikes,” he says. “Sour.”

“You done?”

“Yeah.”

Evan scoops up his hand again, then looks over at Frazer and goes, “Frazer? You want my other hand?” Cal rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, so you’re choosing him over me? That’s it?” while Frazer decides to go mute. Evan shrugs semi-helplessly.

“Well, if you, uh, don’t say so.”

Cal&Co. depart the terminal, and I hear a cacophony of “Sorry” and “Excuse me” and “Oh my god, you have _Snapchat_?” I lift my head to the sight of Taila and Phoebe walking in, engrossed in a conversation I have to really strain my neck to eavesdrop.

In the fractured slices of convo my ears pick up on, Phoebe’s talking about some kind of head. “Well, I mean,” she says, “you could probably just tear off the thin end and dip it in the chocolate cream down at the opening,” and Taila’s all like, “Oh my god. You’re a genius, Phoebe,” and she says, “You sound surprised.” I’m having a bit of trouble putting the pieces together, but I’m pretty sure it’s either food, or homework, or, well, probably food. Then Taila sees me.

“Have you ever gotten a dick pic?” Taila asks in lieu of saying hello.

“Uh, yeah, I’ve seen one.”

“Of course you’ve _seen_ one, Amy. I’m not asking if you’re a middle-aged lesbian.” Taila rolls her eyes. “I mean, have you ever received an unsolicited, non-context dick pic. Like, a dick pic as a form of introduction.”

“Can’t say I have, Taila.”

“Look at this,” she says, and hands me her phone.

I suck a sharp breath through my teeth. “Yikes. That’s a penis.”

“Yeah, but can we talk about it for a moment?”

“Can’t say I really want to.” I drop the phone, and Phoebe makes a move to catch it.

“Were you ready to pay for that?” she asks.

“Not really.”

Taila starts back up. “I mean, how am I supposed to react to a semi-erect penis as fanmail? Am I supposed to feel _intrigued_?”

“He probably thinks it’ll end in marriage,” I say. “You’ll meet IRL and fall in love and someday tell your kids that it all started with a picture of a disembodied penis.”

“It’s just such an odd response to my fanfic. Like, okay, follow the thread of thoughts with me: ‘I really enjoyed this story about Rin and Len’s non-incestuous romantic adventure in which Len is a genie with an attention span of two seconds; as a thank-you, I believe I will send the author of that story a photograph of my penis.’” She turns to me. “How’d you get from A to B, Amy?”

“Kinda lost you in the middle, there.”

Taila looks away, and into the distance. “Yeah, me too.”

“Can we _please_ talk about something else,” says Phoebe.

“Have _you_ ever gotten a dick pic?” I ask her.

“Taila’s already asked me,” she says, instead of replying. “Boys are gross. People are gross.”

“Fair point,” I say, and I’m about to go into the logistics of sexting until Taila starts slapping the desk.

“Shit! Club!”

“Late?”

“Late! Kinda!”

“We’re four minutes early, but considering the fact that it takes about seven years to get there, I’ll say we’re late,” is Phoebe’s educated opinion.

“We should get a wriggle on before we’re wormed out!” is Taila’s.

I slink off my chair, and heave a bag up my shoulders. I hold out two special invitations.

“Hands? Ladies?”

“No.”

“Tough crowd.”


	4. Welcome to the Art Club

**AMY**

Have you ever been strangled? Maybe you’ve had a run-in experience with death. Or, maybe you’ve had a meltdown in English where you were supposed to give a speech about Emily Dickinson, but instead you stood there staring at your palm cards and saying, “umm, umm, umm,” over and over again like you were having a brain aneurysm. Squash all those into some fucked up amalgamation and you have what is known as the _State Arts Fair_. But the locals like to call it _The Ninth Circle of Hell_.

See, ever since the school’s scanty establishment back in the summer of ’97, there hasn’t been a year where Blanksville High’s Art Club hasn’t leaped the limelight, and everyone fucking knows it. It’s the tagline on their website: ‘ _Welcome to Graymoor State’s Starstruck, Unreined, Undefeated…_ ’ written in Bradley Hand.

And that’s great and all, but I think the real problem is that this year’s Art Club is what has to be the biggest clusterfuck of social misfits. The nerds, the freaks, the furries: we’re like a Party Mix. The anxiety and stress and high expectations have churned the event from a _Light-Hearted and Lively Bonding Experience_ into something more like… _The Hunger Games._

I initially joined the Art Club because it looked easy. I was wrong.

We semi-speedwalk the halls, footsteps tapping like a raid of rats against the tiled floor, and it’s here that I should point out I don’t usually give a shit about club activities at all. But our president, Taylor Wattson, is a vice-ridden degenerate, and it’s around Hell season that she starts to shed her skin, beating and eating the dead carcass of art. As in, if I don’t _look_ like I’m doing something, I’ll be gone and everyone will know why.

There’s only a few middle-schoolers in the clubroom right now, and – fuck yeah! – I catch no sight of Taylor. She’s probably circling somewhere, destroying villages and hoarding gold in her mountain lair. There’s also a message scrawled on the whiteboard.

We sit down and we don’t say hi to any of the others, and Taila gives her impression of Taylor’s pompous ass: “‘ _It is of great regret that I have to announce I’ll be away today_ ,’ she says, like we care.” I read it off the board. Taylor’s such a dramatic nut.

“Yeah,” Phoebe says, “I can’t believe I have to actually sit in this club and not be shitting myself every second.”

I peer over at the canvas set up on the easel. “Whose is that? Looks good.”

Phoebe pounds a proud hand against her chest. “Mine. Damn right it looks good.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“Says you.”

Taila follows my gaze over to Phoebe’s painting, and gives one of those cartoonish swoon/sigh’s. “Looks like good progress…”

Phoebe pauses, then takes a glance at Taila’s sketchbook. “Wouldn’t say the same for you.”

“I’m horrible at coming up with ideas.”

“You’re fast at working once you have the sketch done, so you’ll be fine. Trust me.” Phoebe pokes her paintbrush at a page in the book. “Plus, this one doesn’t look half bad.”

And meanwhile, I’m thinking about the different ways I could possibly fake my own death. I mean, face it, one look at my empty sketchbook and canvas is enough to fling any USSR army soldier into a spiral of anxiety. Yeah, sure, I’m also on the same Do Or Die contract as everyone else in this club, but have I done anything? That’ll be a no from me.

Which isn’t new. Procrastination’s just a nosy neighbour by now.

 

Taila reaches over and slaps my arm. Thanks.

“Right, so, Amy, any Breaking News?” she says.

“What?”

“The Hot Topic! Any skedaddle-skedoodle?”

“What the hell are you saying?”

Phoebe smiles pathetically. “Did you manage to tell Cal.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Taila nods. “I’ve been dying to know all day! I was gonna text you or something, but that’d seem really clingy and shit because it would’ve definitely required a double text, and double texting is really _ergh_ , y’know?”

I nod as well. “Yeah, I totally get that.” I’ve never really gotten the whole fuss about double texting, but apparently it’s one of those few unspoken taboos of the internet, and I guess my New Year’s Resolution doesn’t allow me to double text, either.

“Uhh,” Taila crinkles her nose, “so, did you?”

“Yeah, I totally did.”

She turns to Phoebe. “Was that sarcasm?”

“I dunno.”

She turns to me. “Was that sarcasm?”

“No, not at all.”

“Was _that_ sarcasm?”

I sigh. “Do you want the comfy lie or the bitter truth?”

Taila does one of those Sherlock gasps. “Ohh _hh_ … she didn’t…” She just gapes there for a moment. “Phoebe… I’m so heartbroken…”

I jolt up and dangle my arms around like someone’s popped off my head. “Nonononono! I did!” Thumbs up. Forced laugh. Recipe for success. Taila looks up, ready to bite right into my baked surprise.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Just a small technicality is all.”

Phoebe gives this kind of wistful frown. Taila just straight up baits: “Technicality?”

“Yeah.” Prepare to swing. “Played it off as a joke.”

Boom.

Direct hit: Taila looks stunned.  

“You…” She squints at me, “… _huh_?”

Strange. The concept of a joke must be alien to her.

“A joke,” I say slowly. “I played it off as a joke.”

Taila’s squint goes straight to wide-eye. Guess it finally got through to her. “So… what you’re saying… is that he _still_ doesn’t know you like him after _all_ this time?”

I frown distastefully. “‘ _Still_ ’? Right—like two months counts as ‘ _still_ ’.”

Unamused. Enemy Taila is unamused.

Shocking.

“Two months. That makes fifty-six days, roughly.” She crinkles her nose again. “A lot when you think about it, Amy.”

I frown again, but harder. “’Kay, cool, sure, whatever. ’Least I didn’t sit on my ass for seven years, or something.”

“You’re sitting on your ass right now.”

A click, a snap, and a pointed finger. “I fell, okay? I got up, and then I fell. But at least I tried.”

Then a slam’s heard from Phoebe’s direction. I do a quick turn of the head to see that she’s dropped her paints, eyes narrowed like little walnuts.

“You fucking _faked_ it?” No mercy. Phoebe continues, “What was that, a fucking _rehearsal_?”

Haha! B-I-N-G-O! All points to Phoebe!!

“Yeah, it was, actually.”

Taila leans in closer. “And what do you mean by _that_?”

I laugh. Barely. “You see, the silence after I told him was unbearable and he seemed completely broken and I was scared I’d somehow knocked him out or given him some sort of brain damage so I quickly said something and that something just happened to be along the lines of ‘it’s a joke, it’s just a rehearsal, see, haha, pack it up, ladies’.” I look across the seas. “Ahaha. Hah.”

The silence after my outburst ironically becomes even more unbearable than the one after yesterday’s outburst and it also makes me ironically want to kill myself. I can’t _believe_ I’m actually having this conversation. This is, like, the textbook definition of bitchy white gossip.

Slowly, I see Phoebe’s hand reach out. And nip me right in the stomach.

I yelp in pain.

Before I can fire back some bullshit asking why, why she has forsaken me like this, she goes, “Are you actually _braindead_? What, did all your brain cells just decide to vanish into _thin air_?” Her hands go all jazzy to, y’know, enunciate the whole… brain cell… thing.

“Hey, well, that’s kinda mean—”

“Develop some common sense and I’ll try to care.”

I bring up a hand to stop her from striking again. “Non, non, non, mademoiselle! Lend me an ear, kind sir!”

She sighs, the kind you’d probably hear if you shoved a cat off the couch.

“Because of yesterday’s… _fiasco_ , Calvin Oliver has now signed himself up as my practice partner. You see the light?”

Phoebe doesn’t cease the eagle eye, Taila looks deep in thought. No response. I’ll proceed without validation, then, whatever.

“As my practice partner, he shall now listen to my attempts at confession. And then he’ll tell me what’s wrong with it, and, uh, of course, it’ll be _his_ opinion, but that is precisely what I want. You see where I’m going now? Hey? Hey?” I flash them a knowing, scientist wink, and yet they still stare vacantly ahead. Can’t believe I’m stranded on an island of idiots. “Once he tells me my confession’s perfect, I’ll Frankenstein it and swing him over the head with a huge plot twist: ‘ _It was you all along! You’re the one, you’re the one!_ ’ And because he’s told me exactly what he wants in a confession, I’ll be irresistible! Sure, I may have withdrawn the first time, but I’m comin’ back Amy 2.0!”

What a moving speech, I say to myself, but _they’re_ certainly not moving.

Phoebe eyes me like a ‘Trust Device?’ notification, and her mouth falls open. And then it snaps shut again. Her words take turns dragging each other out.

“That’s… a very… okay plan… I guess.”

Taila squints, then nods slowly. “Confession rehearsal, huh? You’ve really done it this time.”

I look around the clubroom to see that almost everyone’s already left. The only remaining fighters are the real hardcore art nerds, and they won’t respond even if you shoot a bullet to their ears.

Phoebe crosses her arms. She huffs decidedly. Anything can be done decidedly if there’s enough energy and authority put into it. “Well, if that’s the case, Taila and I have no choice but to chip in, hey?”

I blink. “You do?”

Taila blinks. “We _do_?”

Phoebe doesn’t give a response, and instead grabs onto Taila’s arm. “You and I—we gotta think about Amy’s confession strategy!” She quickly pulls out a pencil from god doesn’t want to know where, then starts scribbling something into Taila’s sketchbook.

I peer in to see the words “ _Confession Strategy: Fake It Until You Make It_ ” in Phoebe’s small handwriting with her small i’s and snaky g’s, and feel a warm surge of happiness.

“Aww, thanks!” I pat my chest. “You give me a boner in my heart.”

“Oh my god.” Phoebe snorts. “Shut _up_.”


	5. Who’s the Prince Charming?

**CALVIN**

I avert my gaze from the whiteboard and stare up at the ceiling. The topic at hand is our new project—our new movie. Because Frazer loves to suffer.

I slump into my chair.

**_Why did the heroine decide to confess to the protagonist?_ **

**_Why had she fallen in love with him in the first place?_ **

Sure, these circled sentences are about events in the movie, but each and every bold letter seems to shoot right for my heart. All I’ll say is, I’m no protagonist. At most, I’m the supporting cast, rooting for the hero—nothing more.

Then I suppose it’s only natural that I’m Amy’s practice partner. The fact that there’s even a rehearsal means that there’s a real confession hiding somewhere beneath the waters. And I, as the supporting cast, will never dive deep enough to find it.

It kinda stings, I guess, but that’s how it goes. The hero gets the girl. Tale as old as time.

But a story isn’t complete without the background characters. And as a background character, no matter how minor, I must play my role. I sit behind the curtains, operating the heavy machinery, pursuing trail of the true protagonist…

Detective Oliver off to find the truth! Who’s the Prince Charming? _Princess_ Charming?

 _And the plot thickens_ _…_

I glance around at the faces of the others around the Thinking Table. Evan… and Frazer.

None of them _seem_ like the one, but I’ll have to keep my eye out. A _true_ detective must consider all possibilities. It’s real hard work, yeah?

I let out a soft sigh, Evan’s ears perk up, and he responds.

“You’re actually taking this pretty seriously, huh, Cal? You don’t have to think so hard about it, y’know?”

I feel a chill run up my spine. Does he know? Does he know about my mission? Can he read minds? Am I just that readable? Should I—

I catch a glimpse of the whiteboard.

_Oh. He was talking about the— oh._

_Yikes._

I look and sound a bit restless, but I open my stupid mouth anyway. “… Well, I personally think that the heroine needs to have a proper mind-set, right? So it’d be a good idea to sort that out now.”

That was complete bullshit, but it sounds smart. Let’s keep it rolling!

Evan nods intelligently. “That’s true, but you’re not much of a romantic, are you?”

There’s some truth in what he’s saying. I’m a diehard for action and comedy. Romance isn’t really my _thing_. I thought a French kiss was an ancient Russian ritual until tenth grade.

Evan, however, is a man of wide taste, and absolutely adores romance movies. See, he’s been writing an original love story titled “ _Original Love Story_ ”, and it’s pretty much every single twelve-year-old’s wet dream in a nutshell.

Frazer, over on the other fucking continent, is a movie connoisseur; his favourite – and only – genre to watch is **hardcore edge** as far as I’m concerned, and he won’t watch anything but the most emo and angsty movies in stock. Evan and I have made a silent oath to never take him to the cinemas; he bitches way too much.

Most people have gotten _over_ their teen emo fad, but Frazer’s lagging a bit, probably because he spent the first fourteen years of his life as a huge fucking nerd. And I won’t exactly say he was a better person back then, either; he had the temper of a repressed and angry twig. You say a letter wrong in his name and he’d go from helping you off the floor to calling your family gay.

Now, he’s more calm and collected, and hopefully we can help guide him through this difficult age of metal music and long forlorn glances out the window.

Evan, Frazer and I, we’re the main heart of the Film Club, and this heart is divided into three very different interests. So, uh, deciding a theme? Mmm. That’s hard.

We were presented with a ton of options, and whichever one we seemed to decide on was instantly stomped on by Frazer’s high standards and Evan’s inner nerd. In the end, the voice of authority – Frazer – decided that we’d go with a love story. And although naïve little Evan wouldn’t know why our tough guy Frazer would choose such a genre, I had a little hunch.

A growing hunch. It’s under investigation.

Frazer, however, brushed it off with the casual, “Oh, I’ve never filmed one before, so why not give it a shot?”

Evan, of course, was enthralled. I sure wanted to protest, but Frazer was the proud producer of a few rather successful independent underground films, so it would’ve been too much effort to fight him for little to no benefit. I prefer to take the low road. Conserve my energy for greater pursuits. One day rule the universe. Perhaps.

Oh, and that gives me a thought. He’s a real popular snatch, so maybe—

I glance over at Frazer. He’s frozen in time, legs and arms crossed, emitting a strangely tense air. Maybe this is the next stage of Emotism. Maybe this is his emolution.

 _He sure is focussed_ _…_ _Wonder what he’s thinking about._

I scour over his features. Unnaturally spiky hair, prominent chin, piercing eyes… I can see what there is to fangirl over. Heck, I’d hit it.

But I’m not aware of any, like, Amy-Frazer chemistry. They get along like a house on fire, but the actual bad kind, the kind that causes death and destruction and tragedy, not the ‘ _we get along really well!_ ’ kind, which I’ve never really understood. That’s kinda like saying a brain and a brain tumour are best friends.

Frazer then turns towards me, like he’s become aware of my incoherent staring. I shudder, but his eyes are clearly not on this hunk o’ junk. He looks straight at the whiteboard, muttering some inane nonsense to himself.

I’m only barely able to pull my eyes away from him before he jumps up from his seat and drawing me right back where I started. Suave. Real suave.

“I’ve got it! What we need is a picture!” he suddenly exclaims.

Both Evan and I are left dumbfounded.

“Where would we use that?”

“What kind of picture do you mean?”

Frazer clicks his tongue, and our questions fade from existence. Because he can just do that now.

“Why didn’t I think of this earlier? With all these resources we have, there couldn’t have been any other option!” He tilts his head back and slaps his forehead, like this is the most stupid thing he’s ever done (which it’s not, by the way).

Evan’s still all blank, so I – taking some responsibility around here – decide to pick up a memo pad and jot down the idea before we forget it.

“We’re going to have the heroine paint the picture, right?” I say, pen in hand. “We’ll need someone from Art.”

Frazer nods. “Precisely. Someone who can only be honest within the canvas.”

He speaks as if he knows this fictional character personally. I think I get the gist of who it is. My detective senses are tingling.

“Cal, I’m going to need that pen to keep moving,” I hear him say. “Please focus.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.” He slides the pen back into my hands. “We’ll have to include the canvas in the first scene. It might be completely white at the beginning, but as she spends more and more time with the protagonist, it becomes splashed with her truest, most elegant hues.” Frazer motions his hands madly, and even that looks inspirational still. “How’s that sound?”

Evan nods slowly, then picks up the pace, like a laptop booting up. “Yeah… yeah! Rather than using a bunch of crappy lines, it’d leave more of an impact if we focused on the visuals. I think the audience would be able to relate to it more easily, too.”

My arm’s starting to ache. I shove the memo pad off to Evan, who accepts the job with a huff.

“The ideas are all looking good, so we’ll have to next determine how we’re actually going to _a_ cquire all the pictures we _re_ quire.” Frazer takes a second to bask in his wordplay, because literally no one else cares, then jabs a finger at the pad. “Evan, have we got everything?”

“Y-Yeah…” he says weakly, squinting at the paper. “Yeah, it’s there. Cal’s handwriting is just really hard to read.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Frazer rolls his eyes – “Then just rewrite it,” he says – and Evan groans.

I start to ponder the problem at hand. Among the underclassmen, there _is_ this one dude who’s a complete prop monster. But he’s really only our booty call when it comes to action movies. We probably want someone who fits the role of a girl in love…

Mindlessly, my thoughts float on a driftwood back to Amy.

Amy.

_Amy?_

Yeah, Amy! Amy could work, actually!

Practice it may be, but her confession yesterday was, without a doubt, “a girl in love”. It was like the cringey jokester had just strolled out the backdoor and led in a normal functioning human being to take the lead. Like she was a completely different person. For a few minutes.

“… We could ask Amy, or, like, Taila… or Phoebe, couldn’t we?” I ask slowly.

The other two snap their eyes up.

“Wow,” Evan whispers, “did Cal just _contribute_ to this conversation?”

Frazer’s got his usual shit-eating grin, but Evan looks genuinely shocked, and I look genuinely insulted.

Frazer gives exactly two slow claps and I give exactly three shits. “Good on you,” he says. “I’m proud.”

I narrow my eyes until they’re not really there anymore. “You’re dragging me. You’re totally dragging me.”

“Yeah.” Frazer grins again. “We’re dragging you.”

“Fuck off.” I slap his shoulder. “You guys are the reason I don’t talk.”

Evan nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s your special quality, alright.”

Give me a break. I did not walk in here to get insulted like this.

I drop open my mouth to say something like either “Haha,” or “Fuck you,” depending on what falls out first, when there’s a knock at the door.

_Good timing!! Saved by the Knock™._

I’m up to answer, but I stop short as the clock strikes a smooth and silky 4pm. It’s time for Evan to stroll out hand in hand with a lady, and _still_ cling on strong to his Virgin Shield. (Not hand in hand, actually. I don’t think they’re quite there yet.)

Frazer looks at his watch and imitates the Windows start up noise. “User Phoebe has logged in.” Then he goes _beep-boop_ , like an idiot. “Establish connection?”

Evan looks down, and giggles. “I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

Frazer shrugs. “I think you would,” he says. Evan smiles a bit, so he adds: “Maybe.”

The redhead giggles again. He slings his bag over his right shoulder and waves a tiny hand. “I’ll try harder today, ’kay?”

I shoot a big thumbs up. “Go for the goal!”

Evan gives one of those adorable eye-closed laughs, then slips out the door with a _ker-thunk_.

Frazer slumps down onto the desk in exhaustion.

“You’re not gonna wish him luck, ever?” I say, settling down into the chair beside him.

“Luck doesn’t work.”

Silence. Frazer bristles.

“I bet he’d never let Phoebe open that door herself…” he mumbles in amazement.

“I mean, she’s pretty tiny.”

“Yes, but he’s just an overall gentleman when it comes to those things, don’t you think?”

I nod absentmindedly. Evan’s cute _and_ chivalrous. What a dreamboat. “Are those two going out?”

“Beats me…” Still all friendly with the desk, Frazer gives a dismissive wave.

I think that inquiry’s valid. Evan never talks to me about any of this stuff, but I also know that, realistically, he’d probably rather die than ask anyone out. Which makes it an even bigger shock he’s managed to keep Phoebe alongside him all this time.

Evan tags along with Phoebe almost every day. Initially, he only started doing that because Frazer nicked Taila and Amy nicked me, and there’s nothing Evan hates more than being the third wheel. He was alone, Phoebe was alone—although she didn’t really seem to mind it.

So he shoved his intestines down his throat, summoned up the courage, and asked Phoebe if he could, y’know, casually sit next to her on the bus. And, well, that’s where we stagnate a bit. Every bus ride, they kinda just… _sit_ ; Phoebe plugs in her earphones and Evan does this thing where he looks at the other passengers and speculates about what kind of people they are. Like, he once told me he was in the middle of this grocer’s adventure to find her father who used to live in Florida until he got into a quarrel with a bull, when Phoebe tapped him on the shoulder to tell him he missed his stop five minutes ago.

To this day, I still don’t know if they’ve managed to share a conversation yet, but these are still big steps for a boy who can’t order takeout and I still am super proud. I love my adorable anxious son.

And, well, _Frazer_ is still moping. He sniffs, the dry kind.

“Have you heard of unrequited love?”

Oh, yeah. Cal’s Life Story. But no, not at all.

I frown. “Yeah, but what would you know about it?”

He sighs. “It’s rather sad, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“People say that couples only last for around two months, and, for married couples, that’s three years. Chemicals,” he says, and he looks down. “Complicated.”

I blink. I don’t really know why he’s telling me this.

“Unrequited love is something you have to prepare yourself for,” he continues anyway. Frazer never needs input at all when he’s talking, actually, he just keeps going and going until he’s finished, which is either a good thing or a bad thing depending on whether you feel like fitting in a word sometime within the next century. “You could continue liking the person, or you could end it on your own.” Then he laughs. “Like it’s that easy.”

“That sounds like it comes from experience.”

“Perhaps it does.”

And with that, my senses slow to a stop. And then there’s the eyes—Frazer’s _eyes_ —he’s got the famous-not-famous Frazer Howell lingering, lovesick eyes, and I think I might just scream.

You see, over the past few years, I’ve been observing Frazer very closely. I’ve been gathering clues… bread crumbs, if you will. All under the hope that one day—one day, I’ll be able to prove it.

To prove that Frazer has a big, incurable crush on Taila Hamilton. I mean, if you’re diligent enough—if you spend, like, every second hanging around this guy—you’d have to see it, too. You’d have to see how he starts switching seats with Phoebe Sherman at every second break—but, like, _calculated_ switching, designed to optimise his odds of sitting near Taila.

And, this—this is solid evidence! Frazer—Frazer _Howell_? Unrequited love? Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw!

I can’t make any kind of gobsmacked overreaction, because Frazer’s talking again. “More on chemicals,” he’s saying, and I tune him out, one of the only things I’m really good at.

I leave him for the open window. The lively voices streaming in from outside draw me closer. There stands an exceptionally gorgeous dude, surrounded by legions upon legions of girls. He’s of slim figure, a pale face, and pretty, pretty eyes. Which means he’s probably gay.

I fix my gaze onto him, entranced. I’m only able to barely rip it from him back to Frazer. Him. Frazer. Him. Me.

The realisation whacks me in the knees. Hair… _Hair_ , fanciful as the darkest of nights. Black.

That’s it. The trick to getting girls is to _breathe_ the elegant raven-haired bloodline. There’s no way anyone would like this shitty mop of blond hair perched on my head.

It’s almost like God _built_ me to be a forever-alone.

When I finally find it within me to tear my eyes away from the Beauty In The Courtyard, Frazer seems to have also found it within him to stop brooding. His eyes, however, are still melancholy.

I sigh, seating myself beside him. I’m gonna try something super risky.

“If it upsets you so much, you should just tell her.”

And then Frazer snaps up, like I’ve hit the nail on the head and he’s the nail.

He shakes his head furiously, and I can see him reaching for an escape. “No… No. No. That would just be too easy, wouldn’t it? I have a reputation to uphold.”

“As an emotionless rock?”

“As an emotionless rock.”

I lean back in my chair. “Sounds like a pretty awful reputation to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. You think my anxiety gives a shit?” He cups his face in his hands, and I can feel a small pang of sympathy pull at my heart. “Point is, it wouldn’t be in-character for me to just straight up admit that I liked her. _Like_ her. Still do.”

The best thing about Frazer is that he never questions what you know and how you know it. He doesn’t bombard you with queries once he’s exposed, he sits back and accepts it. He knows I’m talking about Taila, and he knows it’s out there, and I know he’s more than a bit pissed that I know.

“I mean, _I_ think you should just do it,” I say a little lamely. “Y’know… be more _chill_.”

“Have you _met_ me?” I hear him say. “I am a literal ball of anxiety.” Well, that makes both Frazer and Evan, then.

“Okay, well,” I start, making an effort to be more therapist, “have you tried just… uh… _boxing_ your anxiety up and, like, putting it away?” Yeah, my therapist uses the word _box_ a lot. I get it from the best.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll just stuff my anxiety into a tiny little box and shove it up aisle nine in fucking Walmart.”

Huh… Frazer didn’t receive that one very well. With a hum, I think over my options.

Looks like just simply pushing him to it won’t work. And if that’s the case, I’ll have to set up some guiltwire and trip him instead.

“But she’s really cute.”

Frazer rocks back and forth. “I know.”

“And kind.”

“I know.”

“And talented.”

“I _KNOW_.”

I can see the cracks, and I’m grinning like a fiend.

“Then tell her.”

He rubs his hands over his face, clamming up with every creak of the chair. “Reputaaa _aaaa_ ation.”

“C’mon…” I reach out to touch his hand. “What’s this Taylor Swift shit?”

“I think you need to shut up.”

Doesn’t look like that worked. How does Amy get this dude to budge?

“That’s no good way to act!” I channel my inner inspirational gym trainer, and flash the most convincing smile in my arsenal. “If you think you can do it, then you can do it!”

“Don’t wanna.”

Never mind, then. Long live the Queen.

“C’mon…” I prompt, poking at his sides. He lets out a soft hiss every time I touch his spine.

“Why do you even care?”

That catches me off guard. And catching me off guard catches me off guard, especially after the whole “Frazer Howell, a big idiot in love” thing.

Why _do_ I care? Do I genuinely hope for their relationship to go safe sailing? I mean, I’m not really _that_ emotionally invested.

Do I just want to live vicariously through his confession?

 _No_ _…_ _right?_

The more I think it over, the more plausible it is. So I lie, because it’s a stupid reason and I don’t want him to know about it.

I let out a chuckle; it sounds a bit like a dying whale. “I just wanna see my OTP sail.”

I receive no better reaction from Frazer. He actually doesn’t react at all. Instead, he stands up and hastily gathers his utensils.

Frazer heads to the door with his final verdict:

“It’s hard. You wouldn’t understand.”

 

_Unrequited love, huh? You think that’s my case?_

I slump further and further into my chair. It’s starting to creak with complaints, my back’s hurting from pressing so hard against the plastic. I slump even further anyway.

I can’t lie. I’m really disappointed it wasn’t me. I’m kinda disappointed that I’m disappointed, too. Though I guess it’s no surprise I’m not good enough for her.

It’s hard to live with how pathetic I am when it comes to both talent and love sometimes.

I’m staring up at the ceiling again, at the unsteady fan.

“… Maybe I would understand.”


	6. Calmouflage

**CALVIN**

Today I sit at the usual table alone, because Evan and Frazer have ditched me for the canteen’s new cheesecake. I opted out. Dairy and I… we’re not great friends.

In the distance, I see… a human, yeah, dashing through the cafeteria in bright pink Sketchers.

Amy. Suspect—well, of course it’d be Amy.

She pants desperately for my attention, heaving heavily as she steadies herself against a table leg; sounding like a bag of seagulls being beat to death with a broken trumpet. I slowly tilt my head, perplexed.  

“CAL!”

And, _whoop-de-doo_ , she slides behind my back. Suave.

“What’s got your panties in a knot?” I inquire.

A string of panicked “ ** _yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes_** ” is all Calvin Oliver receives in return for his troubles.

“What’s up?” I gently shove her off of me, but she clings on even tighter. Like… metal filings to a magnet. I really liked that experiment, actually, but that’s not what I’m going for.

“Alan.”

“Alan?”

“ _Alan_.”

Yeah. Helpful.

I exhale loudly. I take another whack at the whole “Alan” thing, but I don’t really get very far.

“No time for questions. All you gotta do is just fulfil your role as my Calmouflage.”

I roll my eyes, then go back to patiently prodding her off my back. “What, did they, like, steal your lunch money years ago, or something? Are they out for blood? Your star-crossed enemy?”

I fling out possibilities, but Amy just shakes her head. “No, no, not at all.” She smiles, the toothy kind. “He’s a really cool dude.”

A he… a dude. Okay, okay.

I squint in confusion. “So? What are you doing behind me, then?”

She squints back at me, in what looks like disgust. “Dude, I haven’t seen him in years! Well, year. One year. I think.” Amy does some weird adaptation of our beloved jazz hands. “You know where I’m goi— Anxiety. It’s anxiety. I am literally. Filled. To. The. Brim. With anxiety.”

I groan. This is stupid. Looks like Amy never learned the ‘wave and leave’.

“What’s he doing _here_?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You think I know? I don’t know.”

“I thought there’d be at least some kind of communication between you two,” I say. “He didn’t hit you up?”

“No. I am raging.”

Then suddenly she bolts up, and you can practically _see_ the lightbulb pop up above her head. “Right – ’kay, Mr. Director, what’s the best way to be, uh, not yourself? Like, me, but _not_ me, you feel? From this moment on, my name is Alex Andreguis.”

“Well, all you gotta do is just believe you can be who you wanna be.”

“Sincerely shut up.”

Folks, it’s the classic ‘sorry, you’ve got the wrong person’ card. Yeah, theoretically it’d work; he hasn’t _seen_ her in a while. Three problems: I’m no director, Amy’s no actor, and she hasn’t changed much at all in years. She’s gotten a few more zits. (I don’t count them, she does.)

“You’ve really got to stop doing this, Amy,” I say airily.

She drops open her mouth and makes some kind of “ _pwwwwfffffssssshhhhffffwww_ ” noise, before she’s stilled by a sweet voice from, like, the ceiling, I don’t know.

 

“Amy! There you are!”

 

I turn to Amy for any context, but she doesn’t really look _here_.

“ _He_ …!” she breathes.

I look back at the mysterious figure in the distance. Fabulous hair, sculptured face, pretty eyes… This is the guy she’s been so hot and bothered about?

Well, no shit! He’s a real hottie! I’d get pretty hot and bothered looking at him, too! Feels like I’ve seen him somewhere. ’Tis a small world.

 


	7. Do These Memories Come With a Receipt

**AMY**

His voice materialises into a tiny little gremlin and it knuckles me in the knees. I don’t even have to turn around and I know who it is.

_Oh. Shit._

What do I _do_? I don’t even have a plan or anything—I can’t think of any smart one-liners—I’m absolutely defenceless! Now that he’s here and he knows, I can’t even pull off the whole “sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person” card anymore!

I spin on instinct, and surprise, surprise: it’s him. _H i m_.

Okay, I saw him yesterday in the courtyard and that in itself should’ve been enough of a sign to change my name and fly out of the country, but did that cross my mind? No. I got that oh-too-familiar rush of “ABORT ABORT ABORT” but I must’ve been too busy ogling at the girls spread around him to pay the actual man any mind.

Plus, he looked like Justin Bieber, and that’s Not My Alan.

BUT NOW THE TABLES HAVE TURNED AND _TURNS OUT_ THAT _IS_ MY ALAN. THAT IS VERY MUCH MY ALAN. _THE_ ALAN GIFFARD. RIGHT THERE. IN THE FLESH.

**ABORT.**

I’m about to pass out. Oxygen is running thin.

If I touch him, I bet he’d be real.

I blink a few times. He’s still there.

If I touch him, he’ll be real. _Real_.

_H o l y.  S h i t._

I feel my soul retreat into the deepest, darkest quarters of my body, where I’ll probably never find it again. I shake my head madly, and decide to focus more on what’s actually happening than what _might_ happen. (My worry list currently includes tripping on my words, forgetting my name, forgetting who I am, forgetting… uh… What? Amy? Amy Adams? Don’t know her.)

(Also the walls will cave in and everyone will die. That’s definitely up there.)

I shake my head again, and squint my eyes until the world’s back into pristine HD focus. And I see Phoebe and Taila standing beside… uh… _Him_.

“Oh, you know her?” asks Taila, gesturing towards me.

Alan smiles, and the first thing I notice is that he’s also cut his hair. He’s rocking some strange curly-spikey combination up there—Slick. As. Fuck.

Also, uh… no glasses. That’s new. I thought contacts made your eyes bleed.

A few days back, he sent me this ‘I’ve got a surprise for you’ text with a winky face, which I guess apparently meant ‘hey, I’m hot now’.

I zone my awkward ass back in to hear Alan saying something… something about… Amy.

Me.

 _Me_.

Fuck. I’m gonna dig up a ditch and die.

What did he say? The gremlin beats me with a fucking broom, it beats me into the fucking ground, _die, die, die, die_.

Phoebe laughs. She _laughs_. I’m dead. I knew it. I fucking knew it. This is it. This is the end. The social suicide.

Sweat. Sweat. My hands are sweating. Fuck. _Speak up_ , I have to speak up.

“Uh, hey, Alan! It’s cool that you’re here! Back here. In school. I mean, like, you were in school before, you wouldn’t _not_ be in school, but, umm… I mean, it’s, uh— it’s cool I get to see you again, even though I saw you last summer, which was pretty fun, wasn’t it? We got to, uh—” Holy shit I’m rambling. _Fuck?_ Fuck. I’m so fucking fucked. People are _watching_.

Alan does this small wave and his features soften and I pump the fucking brakes even though it’s way too late and the damage has already been done and why did I even speak.

“I mean, uh, hi.” I could probably just die right now. “That’s what I meant. Hi. I over-spoke. Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies. _See? Alan knows how to stop, why don’t you?_

Shut up.

_Shut up._

Taila shoots me a look, and I shoot her a look—a look that says: “Please help me.” She smiles.

“So, this is Alan, huh?” she says. “Amy always goes on and on about this Alan dude—and look! It’s you! She says you two were like brave soldiers, _battling_ the _brutalities_ of primary school! Isn’t that right? She really likes you—though you probably know that already.”

I die for the fiftieth time today. She did _not_ need to say that. That makes me sound creepy and clingy, and I _am_ creepy and clingy, but my New Year’s resolution requires that she does _not_ say that.

I bore my eyes into Taila’s skull: “You did not help.”

Then I just stand there – blinking, breathing, y’know – for a while. Feels a bit like getting ratted out by your mum in public.

“I guess I do,” I murmur. “Haha.”

Alan laughs. He looks so uncomfortable. Shit.

“Well,” he says, “I really like you, too.”

“Good! Thanks.”

It’s actually so awkward that I’d rather pass out and then melt into the ground and never be seen again. I want to send Alan back to wherever the hell he even came from and then go back home and cry forever. I wish this conversation never happened.

Cal, who’s stayed suspiciously quiet throughout this whole ordeal, rolls his eyes—classic. “Good fucking luck.”

And with that, he’s gone. Already.

Fu-u-ck.

“Yeah, you’ll need it,” Taila laughs.

“Ha ha ha.”

Alan stares after the ghost of Calmas past. “Was that Calvin?”

“Huh,” I say, and I’d probably sound impressed if I wasn’t constantly stuck on Awkward, “how’d you know that?”

“Blond. And hot. Fits the description.”

“Glad you feel the same way.”

Alan shrugs. I turn to him.

“So,” I air-thumb his hair, “that looks really good on you.”

And then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet I could die. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yeah!” I nod, with this small bout of enthusiasm shoved in my gut. “It’s like one of those things in manga where a character walks in all brand new and everyone’s like, ‘Woah! Who’s this dude?’ because he’s so dauntingly hot, and from the back this girl’s all like, ‘I know him! That can’t be!’ and everyone else is like, ‘No way!’ and the girl’s like, ‘No way!’ and the dude’s like, ‘ _My love… I have come for you_ ,’ and then they get married and break up in, like, a year.”

Okay, I may have over-spoken again, but Alan’s laughing, and laughing’s always a good sign unless they’re laughing _at_ you, and I don’t think he’s laughing at me, unless, of course, he actually is, and if that’s the case, I’ll just have to die.

“Holy shit, Amy,” is all Phoebe says before she stands up and heads for the canteen, and, honestly? Same.

Alan gives me this kinda, like, confused look. I raise my eyebrows and he raises his, and then there’s silence, which is a very! Bad! Sign! Running out of conversation is like getting run over by a truck— _plus_ , everyone’s there to watch it happen.

I slump back into my CCC (cheap cafeteria chair), and I remember a tip from _How to Social: 101_. ‘ _Memory Mayhem!: Distract them with a fun and interesting memory while you figure out how to slip away._ ’

“Remember when, uh…” I trail off. Fun and interesting. Make it fun and interesting. Fun and—

“… we were, like, brothers?”

Nope. Crash and burn. _Taila_ looks interested, but, then again, I think that’s just her resting face.

Alan seems to be thinking of the same tip. He chuckles heartily. “Remember how everyone used to call us ‘Jack n’ Jill’?”

Yeah, that never happened.

I chuckle heartily. “Haha, yeah. Wild.”

Taila pokes her head into the conversation. “Brothers? _‘Jack n’ Jill’_?”

I nod. “Let me show you a photo—” I pull out my phone, and desperately thumb around for a photo that doesn’t make me look four. I settle on a classic in front of the school’s cherry blossom tree. I remember that one really well, actually, because Alan choked on a flower petal just after the photo was shot.

Taila sighs in astonishment. “Jee… That’s convincing…” And that’s because we’re both Asian.

Alan beams. “Worked like a charm.”

It didn’t really. Everyone called us stupid.

“Thanks for everything, Amy,” Alan suddenly says, and I lag for a bit because that wasn’t even in the hundreds on my list of What To Expect. I half-smile. He smiles back.

_Tip 34: If they give you a Kind Gesture (see Article 53), return it! Don’t let the chain get too long, though. It’s tiring on both sides._

“Yeah, dude, uh…” Fuck. Salvage the situation. “ _Thanks_ for _being_ my _friend_.”

 _Ohh_ , that’s _laaame_. Alan was my only friend. I don’t like thinking about it.

“No prob, rob.” Alan lightly taps my back. And again. _I think that’s called…_ patting _… your back._ Thanks.

I move to return the Kind Gesture when Taila decides it’s a good idea to slap the shit out of my shoulder again because what even are words.

“Shit! Time!”

“What’re we at?”

“We’re at— we need to leave! Stat!”

Taila’s full of crap like this. I just wanted to talk to Alan. I don’t even have to say anything and he grabs my arm.

“Umm, you can go, but I… uh…” He inhales sharply, “… just wanted to give you this first.”

Alan ruffles through his schoolbag, and he pulls out a smaller, brown paper bag—like, I don’t know, inception. He grabs it with both hands and holds it out to me, Japanese love letter style.

“Can I open it?” I ask dumbly.

He gives me this no-nonsense look. “Of course. I want you to have it.”

That’s kinda strange, I’ll admit, but I nod and resign myself to owning it. To be polite, y’know. Yeah. God, I hate gifts, they’re so hard to accept. What do I say? How do I say it? Just “thanks”? What if it’s, like, three million diamonds? What if it’s three million tickets to The Emoji Movie? Do I just… melt? Yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll just take it, look inside, and then _die_.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Here we go.

 _Dun da da dunh da dunn dunn_ …

“Holy…”

Shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!

**_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_ **

“This is the limited booklet! You won? No way. You _won_?” I faintly hear myself saying. I’m dazed. Completely and utterly gone. I am deceased.

The limited booklet. _The_ limited booklet. Fuck me.

“I guess I got lucky.” Alan looks down.

“Got lucky my ass! This is amazing! I never thought I’d get to see the real thing in person!” I’m gonna cry, I’m gonna actually cry. “Fuck! Me!”

Taila, watching from the side-lines, takes a peek at the booklet with a confused smile of her own. “I dunno what it is, but it sure looks cool!”

I beam until it hurts and my voice goes all high and pitchy – y’know, like those girls who get all swelled-up on _The Price Is Right_?  

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah! Kishimoto-sensei’s the best!”

Alan smiles. “Very true.”

I look at him and he looks at me and I realise— ah, _fuck_ , human morals. I look like a greedy bitch, don’t I? Shit.

Fuck. Me.

I fling it back out to him and there’s definitely an undercurrent of reluctance there and it makes me a horrible person.  

“But you’re a fan, too, right? You keep it, dude,” I say, and I shrug like it doesn’t affect me at all, like it’s all cool—and, yeah, it’s _supposed_ to be, but it’s not, because I’m a selfish person. That’s just how the pussy crumbles.

But Alan shakes his head. He almost looks disappointed.

“No thanks,” he says. “Please keep it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

The initial excitement of the gift wears off, like any good drug. All that’s left is the guilt. I didn’t even win this, and here I am, holding it like it’s mine. And then my brain goes, ‘Dude, he _gave_ it to you,’ but my brain also goes, ‘How’re you gonna pay for this, idiot?’ so I don’t really know how to feel. Gifts kinda suck like that. You get one and suddenly you’re trapped in crippling debt forever.

Fuck you, brain.

I connect my eyes to his. Surprisingly, he holds the look.

“There has to be something I can do for you, Alan Giffard The Great.” Then I shrug again for extra casual points.

He laughs. It’s still pretty quiet. “No, it’s okay… really.” His eyes carry hints of hesitation. _He’s lying_.

“You sure?”

Silence. Alan quits the whole eye contact deal, and fiddles around with his fingers instead. I don’t want to force him, but at the same time I do. I want to know what he wants so I can be a good person, but would that simultaneously make me a bad person? Alan shifts from foot to foot and opens his mouth like there’s words stuck in there, but they never actually come out.

Finding words has never really been one of Alan’s strengths. For me, it’s more like my brain forgets about the _finding_ , it just spits out whatever the fuck it wants to. My filter is either broken or non-existent. I think my habit of over-speaking came from Alan’s habit of _not_ -speaking. 

Forcing someone is definitely bad, I decide, so I pop off the cap on my chatterbox. I think I’ll wait around until he gets comfortable.

“So, this is really the real deal, hey?” I say, turning the booklet around in my hand. “It’s got drawings and, oh _fuck_ , that’s his signature. Nice. Always wanted one of these…” I tune out my own words, which sounds pretty ridiculous, but it’s actually super easy to just sign off and leave my mouth on autopilot for a while.

“Umm— Amy!”

Woah! Alan said something. The whole autopilot shit only works with _my_ voice, because I’m so sick of it.

“Umm… I do kinda want, uh…”

Double woah! Guess good things _do_ come to those who wait.

I casually slip an arm… not around his shoulder, it doesn’t really get there. It’s kinda just, uh, pressing against his neck. “What’s up?”

“In return…” He charges in! “Well, it might be a bit selfish of me to say it like that…” And he charges out.

“Hmm? What is it?” I attempt one of those cool and compassionate smiles you see in movies, and it feels like trying to eat plastic. I close my eyes and pretend it never happened. “If it’s something I can do, I don’t mind at all. In fact, even if it’s something I can’t do, I’ll give it a swing!”

That’s probably a lie, and the Bad Amy starts to hope he asks for something within my capabilities. But, y’know, maybe I will ‘give it a swing’. Whatever that means.

Alan takes a deep, deciding breath, and raises his head again.

“During summer vacation, do you, uh, wanna… go _out_ … somewhere? W… With just the two of us… like before…!…?” The more words that fly out of his mouth, the more his face falls. He just sounds really confused, like he doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be all, ‘Yeah! I’m super confident and I nail chicks!’ or all, ‘Well, I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s okay, I was just offering, it doesn’t really matter, anyway.’

“Well done. Glad you could tell me,” I say, like some kind of therapist. “And, yeah, I’ll definitely go.” I shoot him a thumbs-up. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The levels that Alan’s face lights up genuinely makes me so happy. There’s a fanatical gleam in his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. I would fight for that smile.

“Alright!” He nods. “I’ll text you about the details later!!”

“Yeah!”

I watch him go, and I’m smiling again. I don’t even know why I get so sentimental over this kind of shit, but here I am, realising all over again. Realising that things right now… are good.

It gives everything a really warm hue.

“So, that’s great, isn’t it?” Taila whirls around to me. “That went really well!”

“Yeah.”

Every now and then I have to check if everything around me is real. If I haven’t gotten caught up in my dreams again. If I’ll just wake up and Alan and Taila and everyone will disappear and all I’ll have is me and Mum—like before. Because it never _seems_ real.

But every time I check, they’re still here. They haven’t left, yet.

And it feels nice.


	8. Tradition

**AMY**

_Tick-tock-tick-tock, goes the clock~_

I’m kidding. I don’t have a clock in my room. (It would be cool if I did, though. It’d be blue and floral and all the numbers would be written in some really fancy font… like _Snell Roundhand_.)

I don’t have a clock, but I do have a calendar. It’s floral. This month’s flower is the balloon flower, which, in my opinion, doesn’t look much like a balloon at all, and more like a hat my grandma would wear.

I blink at the calendar, and bold, black numbers blink back at me. Today’s the 9th. Yesterday was the 8th. JFK was the president.

Today’s the 9th.

“No matter how many times I check, it’s _still_ Saturday…”

Gahh… This is boring. So boring. Motivation’s dying—and fast. I don’t think I’ve ever laid in bed, fully clothed, fully conscious, for so long. Feels a bit unhealthy.

I prop myself up on one elbow and inch my arm over the bedframe to pull back the curtains. I can see Cal’s room from the window.

_So that’s what’s missing._

I haven’t made my weekend-ly trip to the Olivers’. Our houses stand side by side, so it’s pretty easy to just pop in and out, like some kind of ugly fly. Besides, he’s my human contact quota. Without him, I’ll have Mum on my ass, _and_ I’ll have to go for a walk. Outside. In public.

With a sturdy hand and a throbbing head, our brave contestant hops out of bed in a dignified rush, bracing a book from Bedside Table #1. 2 Combo Streak!! Can she keep this up? Are we witnessing a legend in the makings?! Keep watching and find out!

I slump. Usually, jokes like these are a fun and quirky commitment, but today it’s just tiring. It’s stupid. I’m stupid.

_Stop being so negative._

I shake my head. No. I’m gonna go see Cal, and I’m gonna be the best version of me.

_I think._

I will! No doubts—one love. (A little voice goes, ‘ _Will you?_ ’ but I brush it off in favour of positive thinking.)

I exit my room, survey the surroundings, and make sure no one’s home. _The coast is clear._ Good. No one I need to greet. No one I need to avoid.

Energy level = 100!!

 

Cal’s hunched over, limp-dick style, the sound of intense and competitive clicking the only thing filling the room. There isn’t even any sunlight—it’s just him, his Xbox One, and what looks like some Minecraft rip-off. I stroll over to his bullshit couch-not-couch-pillow (I assume it’s part of a couch, but seeing as he doesn’t actually _have_ a couch, I don’t know where he got it from) and plop myself down, and when he still doesn’t seem to notice, I saddle up beside him with a long, “I _looooooove_ you.”

And it looks like his conscience is still semi-connected to this earth, because he responds with an absentminded, “Don’t just suddenly start rehearsing.”

“A confession should happen suddenly,” I say. “Iloveyou.”

“Too quick.”

“I lo-lo-love you!”

“Cut it down.”

“Aaah~ I _love_ ~ _you_ ~”

“The fuck was that?” He jams a sweaty finger on pause. “How’d you get in, anyway, criminal?”

“Key.” I swing his house keys around and I look absolutely awesome _and_ cool until they fly off my finger. I clear my throat and hope he only saw the awesome and cool bit. “Under the welcome mat’s not the most genius spot, if you ask me.”

“It’s convenient.” Cal shrugs. His eyes flitter back to the only source of lighting in the room. _The_ Xbox One. “You here for the Xbox again?”

Yes.

“No.”

I’m definitely here for the Xbox.

“I’m here to do some quick studying.”

Cal doesn’t believe me for a second; he passes me his spare controller. Only two people ever use it—Evan and I. 90% of his games are single-player, but I have seen him beat a multiplayer with his toes.

I wriggle around on the pillow and get myself real comfy, Random Book #1 lost and forgotten. My studying days are behind me. It’s time to roll!

“Levelling?” I say. “Or… the _Wild West_?”

“Is that even a question?”

“Yeah, nah.” I navigate a few menus. “Wild West it is, lads.”

“Lezz’go.” He grins. I imagine a _z_. “You ready to get punked?”

I snort, the kind that’s loud and haughty and gets spit everywhere. “Oh, go a _head_.” I grip my controller.

“Gross.”

And I hear him grip his even tighter.

 

An hour has ticked by. I think. I mean, I don’t really know—when you’re sitting in a rotting room on a rotting planet in a rotting body, it feels like it could’ve honestly been either an hour or just five minutes.

We make a combined effort to knock down the hoard of zombie-not-zombies (the rip-off calls them Geeks), Cal pauses the game, and I flick his forehead. Only I don’t do that, because it’s dark and I can’t see.

“Pausing is coward’s play,” I scoff. “Are you a _coward_?”

He tilts his head away from me. “It’s for good reason.”

“I’m listening.”

“Did you hear about the thing on Monday?”

I shrug at my controller, unsure of where Cal’s face is and not bothered to try find it in the void.

“You mean the Film Club meeting?” I ask, and don’t wait for an answer. “I got the text from Taila. Looking for someone to draw for the new movie, right?”

My mood does a one-eighty and dies. Sure, I’ve drawn props for the club a few times before, but firstly, they’re all shit; and secondly, they’ve never reached public eye, anyway. And besides, it seems like they’re looking for something on a much larger scale this time.

_Positive thinking my ass._

I bury my face into Cal’s couch cloak thing. “… I wonder if I should even go to the meeting at all.”

I can feel Cal shift. He can’t hear me, can he? He still replies, though, and for some reason I’m glad he at least _tried_ to understand what I said.

“Huh? Aren’t you feeling well?” he asks, and his voice is unbearably tender. I give thanks to the low lighting in the room as warmth washes over my face. Under the blanket, it’s not like he can even see my face anyway. I’ll have to come up soon, though.

I resurface for a breath of air and turn my head away from Cal, just in case his eyes have adapted to the dark. The Xbox screen dims, which makes me feel a bit better.

“No, that’s not it… You guys are looking for a picture that’ll be, like, key for your movie, right?” My chest feels heavy all over again. “I feel like Phoebe – heck, even Taila – would be better at drawing something like that.”

With a sigh, Cal lifts my head. I can’t really bring myself to look at him. “Sure, Phoebe and Taila’s drawings are, like, professional, I guess, but we’re not professionals. We don’t really know much about technique or artistic values, we just want a picture that fits the image of the heroine, that’s all. You’d do a good job of that.” He awkwardly reaches to… pat my back? Is that it? It’s a bit tighter than a simple back pat, but it doesn’t really go anywhere, either. He’s just touching me. Tightly.

He continues. “And besides, I like your drawings.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

I blink. “Elaborate.”

“Well,” he says, “when you draw people, they’re really, how do I say it, expressive? They look really genuine. And when you draw backgrounds, they kinda shine, y’know?” I sneak a glance and see him smiling. I look away immediately.

“I think it’s nice, anyway,” Cal says. “Just looking at them cheers me up.”

I scowl into my lap. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

Cal’s body rocks. He grins: “‘I-mi-ta-tion’s not a fla-tte-ry—’” I punch him in the shoulder. “Ow!”

“Bust out your twenty year old references some other time, dude.”

“Actually,” he laughs, “it was released in 2004, so we’re standing more at fourteen year old references.”

I roll my eyes. It’s a bit weird to see him being so genuinely nice, but I’m thankful for it. He says it so easily, too. My body’s so hot I think I could melt.

Cal takes a breath. “So, you draw comics, right?” His voice is soft and whisky. It’s kinda nice, but kinda not. “You should let me see!”

I squint at him, like he’s some kind of visual hallucination and he’ll just go away if I stare hard enough. This can’t be real.

“You… Are you sure?” I’m ascending. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

I inhale.

Yeah, showing my comics is a bit… no. That’d be a bit like throwing myself naked into a pile of tigers and betting I’ll make it out alive. I could give a whole fucking college essay, but one word does the job: _Smut_. There’s a lot of smut. If Cal saw how much smut I drew, I don’t think we could ever have a civilised conversation ever again.

And although I shake and shake and shake my head, a little voice from within the Sin Cave screams for even the tiniest bit of validation. The disgusting gremlin starts banging pots and pans and kicking the walls and my head is stuck on a looping record of, ‘Do it / don’t do it / do it / don’t do it / do it / don’t fucking do it / do it you quivering coward.’

_Do it, you dumb bitch._

I cave in to the gremlin.

“I’ll give it some thought,” I eventually say. I feel a bit giddy.

Cal’s grip on the blanket relaxes. “Let me know as soon as possible, okay?”

My heart pounds against my chest. It feels a bit lighter, but I’m frankly too confused to even notice. Why’s he being so nice? Has he always been this nice? Am I just being overly sensitive again? Why do I feel so emotional all of a sudden?

Aggghhh… questions. Questions, questions, questions.

I blink hard in hopes to see Cal’s face again. Everything blurs, then comes back into focus. And Cal’s face is there, too.

He’s giving me that same warm smile, and I feel a rush of boldness. Perhaps it’s just sleep fatigue, but I’m unusually tempted to test the waters. My head feels light, and my heart feels like a balloon being pressed up against it. The balloon’s pushed nearly to its limits.

“If I happened to get together with someone, what would you do?” I try to be all casual and shit, but I’m faltering because _goddamn, I sound like such a jerk_. But that’s what I am, aren’t I? Who in their right mind asks that question?

Cal’s smile wavers, and it sends chills down my spine.

“That’s random.” It sounds so forced I’m going to die. “Does this have something to do with your comic?”

“Who knows?” I’m also forcing a grin. He sighs.

“Well…” Cal says, “as your rehearsal partner, I’d have to cheer you on, right?”

I feel myself deflate. And like that, the warm air of boldness seeps right out of me. I know it’s my fault. I’ve led myself down this rabbit hole, and it’s a long way back up.

I don’t know what I expected, anyway. Him to fight for me? Ridiculous. Didn’t think I was _that_ self-centred.

But despite myself, I’m still shocked to the point I can’t breathe right.

Cal, luckily, doesn’t seem to think much of the silence, and instead flings my controller back to me. I hear a low murmur, and I can’t tell if it’s sleep deprived hallucinations or if it’s Cal’s voice.

I shrug it off, gripping the controller tighter. Inhaling sharply. Stabilising mindset.

“… Thanks,” I manage. “It’s reassuring to know you’ll be there for me.”

Cal’s left hand jerks forward and his controller makes a staggering beeline for the screen. There’s a loud slam from the controller and a long “Uhhhhhhhhhh…” from Cal. He pats around for his lost comrade, swiftly picks it up, and refuses to look at me and my shit-eating grin. Then he picks up the conversation again like nothing even happened at all.

“You’ll do your best, hey?” he says with a cute, small smile of his own. “You’ll win their heart, hey?”

I return the smile, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“I will!” I say.

You know—like a liar.


	9. The Meeting™

**AMY**

The following week’s Monday is as about hot as the Sun’s burning, sopping balls. Heck, _I’m_ burning. Beads of sweat drip from my neck like the Amazon under rainfall. I’m hot _and_ damp in the most uncomfortable combo known to man.

Where the _hell_ is the fucking AC when you need it? Budgeting? Nah. This is Blanksville.

“Hey, it’s a jet stream!” Taila suddenly exclaims, reaching her hand out to the sky with a small, childish gasp. Personality quizzes will tell you she’s a ‘ _Sophisticated 42-year-old_ ’, which I think is, uh… it’s a funny joke.

“Or, y’know, a rainbow,” Phoebe corrects almost instinctively. She’s an oldie; her mental age’s 67.

I’m the last to look up, and the fucking Sun takes my vulnerability and chucks it against a chainsaw. I’m attacked immediately by unforgiving stabs of light. Clearly, God is _not_ listening.

“Whatever,” Taila says with this sense of carefree that’s either the sweetest or the most irritating thing you’ve ever heard, depending on where you sit on the spectrum. She smiles. “But with a sky this blue, you can really see it clearly, huh? Pretty vibrant.”

Phoebe sighs in awe, and her shoulders relax.

“It’s… nice…”

A tiny “… Yeah,” is all I pump out. Spoken like a true spoilsport. No deep insight, nothing. My head’s about as empty as a classroom after three.

I feel their gazes shift from the clouds to me, slowly, like the shark scene from _Jaws_ , and I jump to change my conversational status. Abort ship! Land ho!

“It’s almost time!” I say, with the kind of forced mirth you’d find _Get Well Soon_ card. “If we don’t hurry, Frazer’s gonna have a fit!”

Artful Dodger: Activated. I take off in a light run towards the art room before anything else can be said. Not very artful, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

My mental age is 7.

 

I hear the other’s footsteps catch up to me – “Hold your fucking horses!” Phoebe’s yelling – and a-sigh is a-go.

I’ve been acting like a real grouch all day… I squint… that’s a _Cal_ thing…

The day has come. I have succumbed to the influence.

Thoughts of Calvin Oliver drag me back down the hole. Within this… pool of whatever the fuck, there’s a singular light shining in my eyes. All I can hear is the soft whisper of, _“I like your drawings.”_ Like some kind of curse.

**_yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes yi_ **

It’s taunting me. I shiver.

Well, in a way, I guess it _is_ his fault. Why’d he gotta be so charming and cute and handsome at the exact same time? Goddamn, dude, save some pussy for the rest of us!

He’s gotten that stupid speech about being a genuinely supportive friend into my head and now I’m worried that I’ll never actually be able confess to him. That he’ll never see me as more than a friend—all that shit. What if I’ve blown the only chance I ever had?

Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to affection. But you can pry this pure, beautiful man from my cold, dead hands.

I’ve heard there are certain pills that help ease the mind. (I think they’re called A Good Night’s Sleep.)

I might need those.

I approach the film club’s doorway and firmly grasp the handle. I wait until I can catch my breath… or my breath can catch me. Maybe it’s both. Creating a super whacky paradox… causing the entire universe to implode… **BAM**! Then it’ll _ex_ plode! Double **_BAM_**!! And then—

“The meeting’s gonna start soon, so gotta get it together!”

Oh, shut up. No imploding _or_ exploding allowed in the meeting room, because then Frazer will have to mop it all up and he’ll sulk for the rest of the year and never forgive you.

Pull on my game face, strut proudly into the meeting room. Good plan.

I strut somewhat proudly into the meeting room. Cal and Evan are screeching at a handheld fan.

Good plan, bad timing.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE CAN YOU HEEEAAAAAR HOOOOW COOOOL MY VOOOICE SOOOUNDS??”

“ ** _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_** ”

My ears are in hell.

I march over to the screaming duet and gallantly free the fan from their mucky, grabby hands. The air immediately seeps out of Evan’s tiny little lungs. You can practically _hear_ it in his voice. “Huuhh?? What was that foooor???”

“Oh, give me a shot, Evan,” I say, cradling the fan with the kind of pride you’d find in a Monopoly champion. My words ripple; the sound’s absolutely stunning, no matter how many times you do it. It’s a renewable miracle. It _blows me away_. (I raise my eyebrows.)

“Woaaahh… duuuuuudeeeee…”

“Yo! Pass it!”

Cal reaches over and I pass it to him, but before he can revel in its glory, Frazer does a Frazer—he casually pilfers away our only source of salvation and condemns it to the Tall People Cabinet.

I give him a salty look. He either pretends to not see it, or doesn’t see it at all. You can never really tell with Frazer, because he manages to make everything look premeditated—even if it’s something small and stupid like tripping on a rock. He just has this… _Thing_ about him that makes you wonder if everything’s a part of some elaborate plan of his, or if he was just being stupid and tripped on a rock.

It’s probably the eyes. His eyes are, like, pretty-boy crossed with… Christian Grey.

 Frazer sighs, and the entire room stills. See? Look. It’s the _Frazer Thing_ again. That sigh sounded _so_ calculated.

“Welcome, Amy. Looks like you’ve made yourself at home,” he says dryly. I shrug. He gestures for Phoebe and Taila to stop awkwardly standing at the door and actually come on in.

“Right. Now, I suppose apologies are due.”

Taila frowns. “What apologies?”

Phoebe urges him on, and he nods.

“I apologise for taking up your time when you’re all busy preparing for the contest,” Frazer’s saying.

I visibly shiver. Yeah. Preparing for the contest. Alternatively, buzzing around the work of your peers while you yourself refuse to do jackshit.

Smoooooth sailin’.

Phoebe raises an eyebrow. “If you’re really sorry, at least treat us to something to drink,” she says, and I can kinda tell from the subtle smile she’s sporting that she’s making a joke, but it flies straight over everyone’s heads. I kinda just sit back and watch it happen.

Evan’s eyes widen. He looks amazed and surprised and terrified all at the same time. “Shoot, that’s right! Sorry, we should’ve thought of that!” He splutters out some slurred apologies, then instantly scrambles out of the room.

Phoebe jerks up from her seat, holding a hand out seemingly to stop the Evan from three seconds ago. Too bad the Evan from now is already gone.

“Woah, dude!” she grows quieter and quieter, “I didn’t really mean it…”

Taila laughs. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Phoebe.” She does her magic and somehow evolves the usually Nonchalant Shrug into a Kind, Reassuring one. “I’m parched, anyhow!”

Phoebe gives her a puzzled, yet relieved look. It’s like she knows she _should_ be thankful but she doesn’t know why. She blinks, and her mouth falls into a straight, pursed line.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure,” she stammers. “You’re welcome.”

Taila beams. Frazer falls ungracefully onto his seat. Cal begins to talk with the kind of smile you’d find on a retail worker.

“For starters, I’ll give a basic explanation about the project,” he’s saying. I shift to find a comfortable position.

Something tells me we’re gonna be here for a while.

 

By the time Cal’s mouth has stopped flapping, Evan’s come back carrying the burden of a several bottles. His posture is majestic, but his face tells a different story.

Phoebe’s face looks even worse. She scrunched it up to possibly the point of no return.

“Jeez, dude… I didn’t really mean it,” she repeats. She’s wincing, but tries a smile. It’s charming, in the weirdest way. “Still, thanks a mill’.”

Evan beams. It’s equally as charming.

Frazer jumps out of his seat, quickly taking out the bottle securely fastened between Evan’s legs. “Good mother of Christ, Evan, we only _have_ six people at this meeting,” he scolds, a mixture of both irritation and bewilderment. “That’s, what, twenty bottles, there?”

He ushers for Evan to hand over the bottles, and they share a very awkward exchange. Evan’s almost tripping over himself again.

“Twenty- _three_ ,” the redhead corrects as he slumps over a corner desk in exhaustion. “Haha… ‘Meeting’? More like, ‘let’s kill Evan’s wallet’.”

Taila reaches over across the main desk and snatches a few bottles. She tries and fails to unscrew the caps, then sticks out her tongue in frustration. Though discouraged, she picks them up again and starts stacking. Taila Hamilton appears to be trying a different approach. Only time will tell where this development shall take her.

Phoebe’s not as relaxed. I’m not sure the last time she’s looked so guilty.

“Dude, I’m… uh, sorry…” she’s _trying_ to say. Barely audible.

Frazer relocates Evan’s collapsed form from the desk to a proper chair. He breathes a loud sigh, and cruelly pulls a bottle from Taila’s Bottle Bandit Beacon. She watches in dismay as it topples over.

Frazer’s face portrays an inner conflict. To apologise, or not to apologise… that is the question.

He doesn’t, of course. Instead, he takes the chance to hop onto the exposition train.

“The main appeal point of the movie – which is also where you will come in – is that our heroine, who has never been in love before, starts showing changes in her art after meeting the protagonist,” he explains, his arms off crazy with gestures. You’d think that shit would _ache_ , but apparently not.

“We want to appeal to the audience through pictures that demonstrate the delicate, and subtle, alterations in the heroine’s feelings towards our protagonist,” Frazer concludes. “We request your help.”

He must have a firm vision in mind, because he’s pronounced every word –

Without.

A.

Stutter.

I’m a bit overwhelmed. And by a bit I mean, like, a bit more than a bit, which equates to being, umm… a lot overwhelmed.

I nervously pass a small, inconspicuous glance at the two sitting beside me. Phoebe and Taila look alarmingly calm. Zen, almost.

I’m not. I’mnotI’mnotI’mnot.

We’ll be expected to create the effect he’s aiming for through one single compilation. It’s hard just to imagine how challenging that’d be.

Especially for me. As someone whose ideas come primarily in the shower, my… _works_ can only be considered as deep as the scalding water dowsing my wet, naked body.

The other two, on the other hand, possess looks hard enough to cut my life into pieces. They both look so cool and philosophical, while all I look like is an amateur shower artist.

My heart’s speeding up again. Reaching dangerous territories. Range could be disastrous. Go back now. Go back now.

Quitquitquitquitquit. Command Q. Force Quit. Error. Error. Error. _Brrrrrrrt_.

Then it’s gone. The flashing lights just… cease, and my thoughts dissipate. No. I can’t give up. I can’t give in. I’ll just have to look as deep as them. I can do that.

I can do that.

Think, think, think… Anything’s good. Everything’s welcome!

Open sesame: Amy’s brain soup! _Psssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_!!

That sounds _disgusting_ , but my brain goes, ‘Ah! Soup! Food!’ and I let it stroll down that alley for a while. I’ve had breakfast, right? God, did we have lunch? ( _We_? Who’s _we_?) (I’m _we_.) There goes my stomach; I am _starving_. What’s the time? Clock? No clock. Are they still serving food? Maybe I can snag a donut on the way home… They’re on some kind of _Super Summer Sale_ right now…

Donuts kinda look like assholes. I wonder if that’s turned anyone off before. Perhaps it’s a turn _on_. Are donuts a kink?

Yeah, right, everything’s a kink nowadays. I want Cal to sit on my face.

I _don’t_ want Frazer to be staring me straight in the cockeye, but he’s doing it anyway.

“You seem to be concentrating hard, Amy,” he’s saying.

He took the bait. Think the artist… Become the artist. _Deep_.

I nod. “Art’s real business, man.”

Frazer raises his eyebrows. “Say, what colour do you think love is?” he muses, casual, like discussing the day’s weather.

My left eye twitches a little. “Colour…?” I quietly echo to myself.

His question makes no sense. Love’s an emotion, not a colour.

Then I’m struck with it. _It_. I know Frazer’s tricks. I know his traps. This is one of those deep, existential questions you’re always asked at the end of an English assignment. ‘Explain your processing.’ ‘What are you trying to achieve with this project?’

If I can’t answer this, I’ll be practically admitting to his Deepness. There’s no way I can do that.

I’ll show him who’s the deepest. Believe it.

I open my mouth, and fill my lungs with air. Fresh air for a fresh mind-set. A fresh, new lifestyle. Become the artist.

Become the artist.

“Uh… pink, I guess?”

The words ripple throughout my body. I’m stilled from the sheer amount of stupidity those four words can and are carrying. 

Amy Adams, the deepest person alive, gives the most fucking textbook definition known to man.

I might as well be saying love’s all pretty hearts and flowers. I might as well be saying the world’s all sunshine and rainbows.

So

fucking

 _deep_.

Frazer looks just as disappointed as I am. With a disappointed shrug and a disappointed hum, he disappointedly switches his focus to Phoebe.

I can’t help but feel betrayed. Like the star of a music video, I clutch my chest and feel the soft pitter-patter of teardrops on my guitar.

I failed to become the artist. Might as well just crawl into a hole and die.

**[+100 Humiliation.]**

Phoebe doesn’t look the tiniest bit pressured. She just looks deep. She’s in the ‘ _Zone_ ’.

I have a Zone, too, I believe, but it’s just Pepe and depression.

“Theoretically, love can be bitter, or painful, which could be brought out in blues or blacks,” she says, cleanly sweeping me under the current with her words.   

Frazer, obviously pleased, nods with dim interest before trading eyes with Taila, who’s already piling on the deepness with a perspicuously deep chin in hand. I’m fucking choking.

“What do you think, Hamilton?”

“I’d say… gold, I guess.”

Out of my rear-view, I see both Cal and Evan’s eyes widen. Even Phoebe seems surprised. I, however, am feeling more deflated than ever. Literally everyone in this room has the potential to be deeper than me.

If life is an ocean, then I am a small and ugly fish. A fish that’s drowning.

I wilt into my chair, completely out of energy to fight any longer. Meanwhile, Frazer props his leg up on some cardboard box, craning his neck closer to Taila like an overeager giraffe.

“What makes you think that?” he inquires. Taila shrugs. She doesn’t look like she really gives a shit. Some people are just talented like that. Maybe being Deep is a gift, and I missed the memo.

“It’s pretty and shiny, but it rusts when you leave it for too long, yeah?” she begins, with that smooth, casual tone again. “And when it shines too bright, people get blinded.” Her eyes are kinda distant, hollow. It’s like the vessel is here, but Taila Hamilton herself is somewhere on Mars. “It can make people do things they might not otherwise do.”

_Uh. Oh?_

It makes sense, but at the same time, it really doesn’t. But I guess that’s exactly the essence of being deep. Say something weird, some people get it, some don’t, everyone moves on with their lives.

I nod like I completely understand everything she said. If I can’t be deep and emotional in my current state, I’ll have to learn from others and level up.

That’s my game plan!! I rub my tiny Asian hands together with glee.

Frazer’s started scratching his head, immeasurably perturbed. “Oh…?” he prattles to himself, “I think the exact same way…” And he really enunciates ‘exact same way’—like, double italics, if that was a thing.

“Cool,” is all Taila says. Frazer looks a bit disheartened.

Cal briefly dusts his shoulder, and decides to take the stage.

“So, that’s the general idea…” he starts, “For the time being, would you mind showing us any of your actual artworks?”

Right… _Artwork_. I bring a flat smile to my lips. I know inside out what they’ll say. I practiced my Passive Aggressive face in the mirror last night. Whatever. It won’t affect me, either way.

I drag my sketchbook out.

“Who’s going first?” Evan asks, surveying the room for volunteers.

My hand’s the first one up. _If I go first, I’ll be able to leave the real talent for last._

Sketchbook in hand, I climb atop Frazer’s table. I seek out his hands to trod on, but he’s one step ahead of me. They’re sitting safely in his lap. Fucking inbred.

“We proudly present our first contestant—Amy Adams—but the locals call her National Disappointment.” My words bounce around in this space of nothing, because my brain’s doing one of those things where it just doesn’t want to be me anymore. I lay my uncreative babies out for the cruel world to see.

The audience stares on, motionlessly. Silence is my biggest, unsurmountable enemy, and they’re feeding me a huge helping of my own defeat.

“No clapping?” I suck a sharp breath in through my teeth. “Fine. Be that way.”

And, _fuck_ , applause starts to build up around the room. This is not how the program goes. I’m supposed to make an empty complaint, someone’s supposed to snicker and make a snide remark, and I’m supposed to step down from the table, burning with shame, disappointed but not surprised.

And if _that’s_ not already enough, the one who leads the positivity is none other than Mr. Justass Frazer Howell himself.

“The expressions in the characters you draw are really lively,” says Frazer, and he’s the one who makes the first remark. He wields his words like a true master; he slices me down to nothing. Killer combo, too. “That’s the kind of thing I’d like to see.”

I feel my soul shrivel up from within. I struggle not to just topple over and die.

_It’s all empty, empty, empty. His words are empty. They mean nothing. He doesn’t mean it. Don’t you see? He’s being fake._

Uh, correction. Being _nice_.

_No. Pack it up._

“The colours are nice,” Evan comments. _Empty_.

“It has good design,” adds Cal. _Fake_.

I can feel my whole body shaking, but I’ll trudge on. I’ll try faint later. No imploding in the meeting room.

I chuckle, but it sounds more like a choke.

“What happened, Frazer? Went to Oz and got yourself a heart?” I give a smile and it’s supposed to be cocky and shit-eating and, heck, it’s actually supposed to be a _grin_ , but there’s currently so much air floating around in my head it could fuel a flight to America. 

Why do I look so scared? Why am I acting so awkward? Why can’t I just take the freaking complim ** _ENT_**?

All I get is an eye-roll, but I’d like to think he found it at least the tiniest bit amusing. “Sure,” is his reply, and I can smile a little more genuinely. Frazer’s so bad at comebacks it’s kinda adorable. He looks away from me and my waggled eyebrow, and I look over at Cal, because when have I ever not done that.

I inch my way off the table, and land a few metres away from him. Up-up-up closer, I can… Oh. Something about his face tells me Cal’s not really home right now.

I sigh a little inwardly. He does this kind of thing a lot, where any active thought decides to completely log off and suddenly it’s just him, standing here, looking like someone’s fried his brain. He says it’s something like being lost along the horizon, nothing really happening at all, while also having plastic pumped into your veins. I think I might’ve started crying, so he then said, “Sorry, I was just spacing out… _AAAAAH_! I’ve been _spaced_!!” and I cried even harder. 

I don’t want to be all overbearing and shit, but I’ll have to admit it scares me sometimes, because I’m afraid he’ll end up hurting himself. I know he’s not, like, four or anything, but when he’s wandering around like sheep on the highway, it really gets my anxiety going. I think it’s usually because he gets excessively tired, and I’ve done a few Google searches, and—

“So, the prince was Frazer, huh…?” he mumbles, and, okay, guess he found his way back on his own. It sounds like he’s just talking to himself, like something only he would understand.. Looks like we’ve found this year’s new cryptid. 

Confusion. Frustration. Both sources are leaking in from the same pipe.

It feels like I’m missing something. Like, do I need to donate to his Patreon to be privy to this exclusive information? _Yeah, sure, make a joke about it, act like you’re not going all queasy, bitch._ _Great_. I’ve gotta get my nerves in check, but then Cal speaks up and my thoughts flat-line into white noise.

“Alright, that’s enough with the flirting.”

_The fuck?_

Cal sighs softly, and again, he swallows whatever words he was about to say. Something about the way he holds them back makes me feel… alone, in this bustling room of six.

I freeze in place, unsure of whether to laugh, or… well, there isn’t anything else I can do without making the whole thing awkward. But then again, I suppose it’s already gotten awkward enough as-is.

So I laugh. Cal looks puzzled. I laugh that off, too.

Frazer doesn’t look too fazed, but takes my lead. He heaves exactly two laughs, then calls up Taila to take the spotlight. We direct our attention away from Cal’s outburst, and over to Taila’s artwork.

Yeah. I’d rather be here, looking at this, anyway.

 _But I hope Cal’s okay_ , a voice hisses to me.

No, he’ll be fine. He looks okay, now. He’ll be fine.

 _But I wish I knew what he meant_ , it goes again.

I… reckon I’ll find out one day. No need to rush.

I inhale. _Steady yourself. Deep breaths. Yeah! You’re doing great!!_

Thanks.

The room’s still silent. Does it really take this long to observe a few A4 sheets of paper? What are they doing, fucking calculus?

“They’re very delicate drawings,” Evan manages to say. He makes an effort to give a warm smile.

Frazer’s mouth sets into a hard line, and that damned tension roams the room again. It’s like a testing laboratory. I’m not sure whether I should choke myself or choke them.

Do I ease the atmosphere or let it linger? It’s so tense I can hardly breathe. I force a few inhales, and my chest only seems to tighten the more air shoves itself in.

It’s like a floodgate’s snapped open. The worries are clamming up. Did I mess something up somehow? What did I say wrong? What did Cal mean? What did Cal mean? Why did he think we were flirting? What did Cal mean?

Yeah, no. I’m still not over it. I’m not gonna be over it for a while. I’m gonna linger on this. I’m gonna let this destroy me. 

My head’s gonna crack open. I can just see it now. Farewell, oh, cruel world! Farewell, Amy Adams.

Everyone seems to be trained on Frazer, so I’ll slip back into the mass, I guess. I arrive at the party in time to see him click his tongue.

“Don’t the expressions seem kind of stiff?” he says, with this sort of high frequency in his voice, like someone’s auto-tuned him. Even the other two look a bit shocked by how unreserved he’s acting. Fucking same.

“I’d say it’s more like they look very well-defined, y’know…?” Cal tries.

“Oh, she’s done landscapes, too!” Evan chimes in.

Frazer only waves them off. He squints at Taila’s specimens again.

“The technique is good and all, but… everything here feels more like references. There’s no originality,” he concludes. He’s got this bored look on his face, almost. Makes my blood boil.

He waves his hand again. “Next.”

It’s things like this that make me want to thrust his bag into the fountain again.

 

In the end, it’s no surprise that Frazer elects Phoebe as the artist. Phoebe herself seems to have lost all motivation, yawning as she calls Frazer over.

“Right, so, Frazer… Could you tell me a bit more about the movie?” she queries, sounding horribly professional. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to fully understand the heroine’s feelings, and conveying the right mood in the paintings would be rather hard.”

“Convey the right mood, huh?” He chuckles. “Yeah, they go hand in hand.” Frazer passes her a pamphlet.

Briefly leafing through the pages, Phoebe breathes a sigh of disgust. “That’s a lot. How much paper did you waste?”

“It’s not wasting paper,” he replies immediately, defensively.

She gives him the sceptical side-eye. “Sure.”

I watch them from a far enough distance to not be considered creepy. Frazer’s got that wide, nerdy smile on his face, and he’s happily pointing out the important sections of the pamphlets.

I let the little droplet of anger welling up in my stomach swell up into a huge irritated waterfall. Frazer’s a dick. He’s such a dick! See, he’ll say some bullshit about ‘oh, I was just being honest’ and blah, blah, blah, but the reality? He’s just a fucking dick with no filter, and this is coming from me. If his personality was a dude, it’d be the neighbourhood’s Big Dick John.

I’m not all too sure how close Taila and Frazer are for him to act like a complete asshat, but all I know is that they take AP English together and occasionally talk in the halls. Don’t think that grants him the permit to completely shit on her livestock. And, look, now Taila’s hurt and Phoebe’s uncomfortable and Cal’s ascending. I want to shove Frazer’s words up his ass and see how he likes that.

I reel myself back in to reality. Autopilot and the rest of Amy’s Brain compare notes. Chaotic meeting. Frazer’s jubilant. _Stick his dick up his ass_. Not too professional, but I’ll take it.

I can see Taila’s smiling, ever so softly, but her body’s shivering like a blown fire. She just looks disturbed.

God… I’m so concerned about her. I’m sure criticism like that would hurt, no matter who you are or who it’s from.

“… Taila.” I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to say. Apparently that means call her name without a backup plan. “Uh… are you okay?”

She shudders, giving her knee a firm squeeze. “Definitely!” Taila forces a smile through an incredibly pained expression. “I get how Frazer is. I’m not upset at all.”

I don’t say anything, and just watch her turn away from me.

“We’ll just start cleaning up, hey?”

Taila laughs. Doesn’t really sound like something to laugh at.


	10. Mission: Escape the Art Club

**AMY**

The meeting concludes in about an hour. And by that I mean I’m just guessing, because I don’t think I’ve ever owned a watch.

Neither Phoebe nor Taila look that into it. We’ve trudged our way back to the art room to work on the life-threatening competition, but even the looming prospect of death doesn’t seem enough to break them away from whatever’s distracting them.

Well, each to their own, but it’s pretty clear that clusterfuck of a meeting is the main culprit, here. Taila’s eerily quiet, Phoebe’s been doing nothing but scratching her arms for the past few minutes. I’m a bit occupied rehearsing awkward-silence-icebreakers to myself. And then I chuck them all out the window because _nothing sounds right._

Rinse and repeat. It’s a vicious cycle.

I decide to drop the thought of ever starting a conversation. None of these icebreakers have the potential to make it past Taila’s uninterested hum. That shit feels worse than a jab to the eye.

I lean into my palm, and listen to the seconds tick away on a clock we don’t have. I’m starting to wonder if the lack of any indicator of time around this school is because we don’t have enough funding or if it’s actually a sick joke meant to drill away at any student’s sanity. It’s a conspiracy theory. (Also there’s cabinets upon cabinets of beer in the teacher’s lounge. That used to be a conspiracy theory until the Tuesday Jake broke in and got completely wasted.)

Frazer said that we’d meet up again at a later date, but he really only needs to see Phoebe from now on, right? If the rest of us went we’d just collectively be the third wheel.

I shrug to myself. I’ll ask Cal later.

“No wonder the cicadas stopped crying. It’s started raining,” Phoebe reports, so quietly you could almost forget she’s there.

Taila seems to pick up fine, though. She pauses whatever nightmarish monstrosity she’s doodled, and tilts her head to meet the sky.

“There’s a whole lot of clouds, too, so I’m guessing it’s gonna start raining really hard in a bit,” she says in reply, pencil falling from her grasps.

I look up at the clouds, and see my plans of a simple, relaxing afternoon fade away. I was going to pull up a chair on the veranda, uncover the chips Mum thinks I don’t know about, and perhaps test some new swears out on Cal’s godawful dog. Not like the dog doesn’t fucking deserve it.

“Jee, you’re right… What should we do?” I ask the others, swivelling my chair around to face them. “Wanna just scram home for the day?”

They both voice their approval. There’s still a fair amount of time until we’re actually allowed to leave, but there’s also really no point staying in much longer. Besides, Taylor’s gone home anyway, and she can’t throw a fit because that’s child abuse and she’s too old for juvenile jail.

Taila’s up and going for the door, when Phoebe shimmies over to the window with a hesitant jolt.

“Hey,” she says, pulling a face, “wanna try the window?”

Taila goes, “What?” and I go, “Woah-ho-ho! Feelin’ brave?” like a gameshow host. And Taila goes, “What?” again.

“Y’know,” Phoebe goes, “the window. Jump out the window. Teenager stuff.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, Taila, I’m fifteen.”

I interject with a “Let the girl try new things, Taila,” and she shoots back a “I would, if it didn’t involve literally jumping out of a window.” Then she dusts it off with: “We can’t be doing this again.”

“We’re only a floor above the ground, anyway.” Phoebe leans her head out the window. “Besides, there’s some shrubs down there we can land on—” Phoebe interrupts herself with a tiny whoop, “Hey, even no bugs this time!”

Score! Looks like George’s finally done his job.

I hold out my hand for a high-five, she holds out hers, and we meet flawlessly in – probably – the smoothest exchange I’ve had in years. We take a second to savour it.

“You guys are crazy.” Taila shivers. “Hello, police? My friends are crazy.”

I give her a look. “C’mon. Admit you’ve wanted to try it.”

“No! Never has that once crossed my mind.”

“Never looked out the window and thought, ‘Jee, I’d love to just leap right now. Fly free’,” Phoebe contributes.

“No, because I’m not crazy.”

“Yeah, okay.” I shrug at Phoebe. She shrugs back. “Guess you’re just a coward.”

“No spine,” Phoebe says.

“‘I’m Taila Hamilton, I was born in a laboratory, and I have no bones’.”

“No bones Taila Hamilton.”

Miss No Bones groans. “Y’all hate me? Is that it?”

“Coward,” Phoebe says. “Don’t you want to live the thrill of teen age?”

“Yeah, but that requires, uh, _living_.”

“You’re not gonna _die_ from jumping out a _window_ ,” Phoebe half-yells, in this no-nonsense kind of voice. “You know what? This is pointless. This conversation is pointless.” And there she goes. “Look, I lived!”

Taila looks down in half worry and half disgust.

I shrug again. “I’ll see you on the flipside, I guess.”

I position myself, then take the leap.

 

It takes a good while until we’ve convinced Taila to jump. By the time she does, club’s been long dismissed, but there’s no way we’re letting Taila chicken out of this one.

Even if it costs her an ankle.

“I am now officially disabled,” she hisses, wrapping her arms aggressively around my neck. It kinda hurts. I give her a look: “ _What are you, a chokehold?_ ”

She loosens her grip a little. Mission accomplished.

Phoebe’s slightly amused. “Toughen up, babe; it’s a sprained ankle.”

“It’s a _sprained ankle_!” Taila snaps, throwing her arms into the air, hitting me twice on the way up. She’s slipping off my back.

“Don’t move so much.” I hoist her oh-so-delicate body up again. “Y’know, if you really are disabled, that means you’re coming with us today, right? We should go home together more often!”

“Maybe I would if you’d stop jumping out the window.”

“It’s not _every_ day,” Phoebe counters, factually.

“You did it last week.”

“Okay, so it’s weekly.”

Taila’s mouth does something that sounds like both a sigh and a groan at the same time. A… _grigh_.

“I’m not keen on breaking my ankle weekly,” she concludes.

I look at Phoebe. She looks at me. We share a second of plain staring.

Then we shrug: “Suit yourself.”

 

Just as our brave Art Club refugees reach the gate’s shining rays of hope, like Taila predicted, it starts to rain harder. She’s a psychic. She’s a witch.  ‘The Girl Who Read the Clouds.’ ‘The Weather Girl.’

Raindrops plummet noisily against my umbrella. I let out a hearty sigh.

“Jeez, I’m totally worn out…!” I’m shouting. It’s almost impossible to hear anything over the loud clutter of rain.

“It’s probably just mental stress,” Taila replies. I’m a bit relieved she doesn’t yell, because she’s so close to my ear. “With the competition coming up, having your work critiqued right in front of you… all that good stuff.” She sounds so painfully bitter. “I worked pretty hard on those paintings but, y’know, whatever. It’s all cool.”

Oh. Shit.

Even though I tried to avoid bringing up Mr. Jerk-ass Frazer – y’know, so I don’t end up tripping on any dangerous wires – the cat’s out of the bag. It’s a delicate situation, this one. I’ll have to cook up a proper fail-safe way to act.

 “Frazer must think really highly of you, Taila,” Phoebe pipes up. Taila’s breathing halts to a stop. “I don’t think there’d be so many people who could be so straight-forward.”

“But don’t you think he was being a little… insensitive about it… y-y’know?” My brain does the thing again, but I catch myself before I can sound too biased. Tripping on wires. It’s a minefield, over here. Literally anything and everything can and will go wrong.

_I wonder if that was okay to say_ _…_

Fortunately, Taila’s lungs start up again. Phoebe keeps on walking ahead. “Isn’t that because he thought she could handle it?” she says.

“Ah…” I consider. “Maybe?”

That makes sense! Frazer’s always super hard on the shit he likes! Cal says he can be a real big talker. Except he’s too occupied by the _bad_ to mention the _good_.

There’s no ying to his yang. An incomplete BLT. An assault on the tastebuds. A failed metaphor.

“I guess Frazer can kinda be a contrarian sometimes, a tsundere, y’know?” I provide.

Taila doesn’t reply immediately. Her heartbeat is a soft thumping against my back.

“… Phoebe,” she breathes, “I would’ve never expected that you observed people so much.”

I’ve never given it much thought, either, but Phoebe does spend a lot more time thinking than speaking. Taila thinks a lot, too, but you can’t really call it thinking when all that occupies her head is dudes and dogs (lots of dogs). You call it ‘air-headedness’.

If Taila zones out, Phoebe zones _in_. She’s the kind of person that would spend a Saturday sitting on her porch, doing nothing but _observing_. No words. Just Phoebe—and her small world of comfy jumpers, snarky come-backs, and closeted love for musical theatre.

She watches people like she’s doing an in-depth analysis. And in a way, she is. She’s got a database of everyone in Blanksville. Hobbies, whether they walk or drive to school, their social status (which is determined by whether they walk or drive to school, _and_ if or if not they have a shitty car); shit like that.

Phoebe (ver. 4.0) has got three modes. On one level, she’s enjoying a conversation with you, her most _dearest_ classmate. On another level, she’s thinking of all the things she _could_ be saying to you, but isn’t because she’s ‘not that mean’.

And beneath it all, she’s keeping track of every little info gem you’re polishing.

It helps her stay on top of things. Stay in the _loop_. It’s a real magnet for both chicks _and_ dicks worldwide.

‘People are most flattered when you remember details about them,’ she’s told me once. I’ve nagged her about maybe perhaps possibly passing off her spreadsheet to me, but she says it’s Classified Information, _with_ a capital C. Also it costs a couple hundred bucks, and I don’t sell weed.

Phoebe doesn’t profile herself, but I profile her. And Taila. And I was gonna start profiling Cal too until I made that New Year’s resolution.

Phoebe’s never had a taste of the _luh_ - _luh_ -love potion. These pictures are gonna be an adventure; I bet Phoebe thinks love is some kind of dragon witch curse.

 _Fuck!_ A raging pain is surging up and down my back. Jesus Christ!

Taila’s fidgeting. Her knees are riding up my sides. _Someone_ tell her to stop.

She opens her mouth like she’s gonna say something, but nothing comes out. Phoebe also takes note of this. She strides over to my passenger, pats her head, and smiles.

“ You still worried about it?” she says, and, hey, I never really noticed how soothing her voice could be.

“Maybe.”

“Well, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.” She places her hand on Taila’s shoulder, and looks her straight in the eye. “And, well, I think your pictures were pretty… uh—” Phoebe flinches. “I was setting up for a punchline and it fell flat! It was gonna be so emotional and shit and it didn’t work.”

I can both feel and hear Taila inhale very, very deeply. I can’t feel nor hear her exhale. I’m about to remind her to breathe when she slides cleanly off my back. I panic a little, then I see her hobble over to Phoebe. She gives her a slap-shake (where you hold out your hand and the other party slaps it) (it’s _not_ a high-five, because dealt down low).

And I see Taila smile her first real smile for the first time in… I’ll say an hour. She’s breathing normally, too.

She slings her arm around Phoebe’s shoulder, hopping awkwardly on her good ankle. “It was good, still. Thanks, P.”

Phoebe shoots her a small thumbs-up.

“Yeah, no problem.”


	11. Which Outfit?

**AMY**

Let me set up a situation. You’re sleeping. You’re dreaming about cows. Just a bunch of cows. Within your dream, you can hear the faintest of beeps. You try to ignore it but it gets louder. It starts to interrupt your cow dream. You’re not happy about that. It’s piercing your ears.

And then you’re pulled back into the real world, and your free trial of death has ended.

You swing your arms over to the side, and pat around. You throw your alarm clock across the room, hear it clutter against the wall, just to realise that you’re actually three billion years late and almost shit yourself in bed.

What do you do? Yeah, you cry.

“Shoot… I wanted to spend good time picking out my outfit, too…” I clamber out of bed.

If there’s one thing I despise about the weekends (other than Sunday and the Great Sunday Depression), it’s having to choose out your own, unique outfit, instead of mooching off the pre-set expectations of my – extremely comfortable, may I say – school uniform without looking odd. It’s just too much creativity required and I’m just not so sure my brain’s up for that at, what, three in the morning?

It’s actually ten. And I’m late.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet the wonder himself—Kishimoto-sensei. Don’t know what he’s doing in this wretched country, but I’m not throwin’ away my shot.

I’ve even prepared my own fanart for the event. It’s the dreamchild of Frazer and Sasuke. My first and only true masterpiece.

I’m super hyped— it’s my big break! Time to actually spice up my life! I’ll finally be able to say that, _instead_ of rotting away in my room, I actually _socialised_ with fellow _people_ at a _convention_!

(Score!)

I dump a load of clothes onto my bed and I stare in dismay at the misery about to befall me. Two competitors. A daunting prize. Oh, the stakes!

Now, over to stage left, you’ll see our first contender for the prestigious role of Amy’s Shitty Convention Clothing! (I think I’ll call it the ASCC™ Awards.)

 

 **The Black Shorts, Blue Blouse** (it’s probably just a shirt but blouse sounds cooler) **,** **and Black Jacket Combo:**

 **Summary:** As a dark outfit, this choice is very resistant to stains and the such. However, a thing to look out for is following too severely in Frazer’s edgy footsteps.

 **STYLE:** 98

 **ATTACK:** 75

 **DEFENCE:** 105

 **AVERAGE:** 139

But on the other hand, providing stiff competition, is our second contender!

**The Blue Shorts, White Shirt, and White (Leather!!) Jacket Combo:**

**Summary:** Leather jacket. Good jacket.

 **STYLE:** this jacket cost me $300

 **ATTACK:** L E A T H E R

 **DEFENCE:** 69

 **AVERAGE:** leather isn’t average

**[It’s evaluation time!!]**

 

Both outfits bring up very good points. While Combo 1 is a Fail-Safe Ketchup Shield, Combo 2 is leather. It’s just leather but it’s also _leather_. Ladies and gents, we sure do have ourselves a huge crisis, here!

Oooohhhhhhh, a hard decision indeed… What did Phoebe say about style that one time? That style is…

Style is up to the person. Then she told me I had no style. That’s not going to help.

Will I have to execute the backup plan? No… right?

The sacred art of Mixin’ n’ Matchin’… a secret passed down through the generations. They say only the most qualified stylists possess the ability to Mix n’ Match. One must know their clothes inside-out to successfully perform the magic.

And I don’t.

But I guess I’ll have to give it a shot… Desperate times call for desperate measures. Precious minutes are ticking away.

I ready my inner style for the Mix n’ Match of the century, when I hear a _knock-knock-knock_. _Knock knock knock knock_.

It gets faster and faster. I hate knocks. They freak me out. I’ve told people about it; they say I’m just paranoid. And, well, yeah, that’s true, but I’m sure there has to be some kind of logical reason why five _tap-tap-tap_ pings against my door make me sweat like a sponge. If I could install a doorbell to my room, I would.

I’ve told Mum about it, but she doesn’t ever seem to remember. That’s okay. It’s probably Mum knocking right now, unless Cal’s broken in through the window again.

I slink over to the door. Yeah, it’s Mum, panting for breath.

“Why did we put your bedroom on the top floor again…?” she rasps, holding tight onto the doorframe. This is who I have to thank for my shitty stamina.

“You wanted to get away from me.” I hand her one of my _Lifesavers_. (Not the candy. My _Lifesavers_ are spare bottles I keep under my bed in case I get too light-headed up the stairs.) “But what brings you to my den?”

Mum chugs and chugs and chugs. I count the germs she’s possibly lead into this room.

She takes one final gulp. “You’re so loud!” she eventually says. “What are you doing?”

I clasp my hands together. “My clothes are having a battle!” I say. “Tied currently.”

She steps aside to witness the remains of The Great War. I aim Mum’s empty _Lifesaver_ at the bin. Our star basketballer misses by a clean three metres!

Mum scoops up the two battling parties. “Actually, that brings me to why I’m really here.”

I cock an eyebrow. Usually Mum just tells me to shut up, leaves, and then we stay out of each other’s business until I make a ruckus again. This is a remarkable development.

She casually strolls over to my bed and casually drapes a Dress over the head. I not-so-casually choke back a shriek.

Oh… my god. What is It doing here? I threw them all out! Why does Mum have one? God, It even has the old tear marks! Disgusting. I die a little inside.

“Here,” she says.

Cautiously, I approach the sleeping Dress. It looks peaceful now, but only God knows when it’s going to awake from its uneventful slumber and pull me back into the fresh hell of frayed tips and high heels.

Eyebrows fully raised. I inhale sharply.

“Ah, yes…” I try to sound appreciative. It’s not working. “I’ll just… _wear_ … this.”

Mum swiftly nods. She ducks out of the room, abandoning me with It.

 

For the next few minutes, it’s just the Dress and I. No one else, nothing else.

I scan over the Dress, and It scans over me. Under its powerful hold, I feel my shoulders stiffen up, my heart sink.

 I’ve lost the battle.

With a hearty sigh, I sling the dress over my shoulder, and it accompanies me on my walk of shame over to the mirror. Holding up the dress in front of my pyjamas, I look at my reflection. Ruffled. Disturbed.

Bleh.

My phone starts to vibrate in what looks like a technological seizure. It’s Alan. Calling.

 _Calling_? Calling! No. No thanks.

I consider whether or not I should let it drift off, or straight-up decline. There’s no way I’m gonna _take_ it. It’s stopped ringing, anyhow. Option 1, then.

Early morning calls, not my thing. Especially when I’m late.

I’m _late_.

I’m **_late_**!

I agonise over the Dress; I have no clue why I’m trying so hard. It’s, like, the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever been in, but that doesn’t really seem to matter. It looks okay… I guess? On a good day, It looks okay. At ten o’ clock on a surreal Saturday morning, It looks _kinda_ okay. I think that averages to… lookin’ _Moderately Presentable_. That works for me.

I’m staring hard at my hair. _Hair_. Big. Fucking. Mess. It’s not even a hot mess, it’s that bad.

I absentmindedly reach for a comb. Hair down? Hair up? Which one looks better? Dresses usually call for long, wavy, luscious curls. I don’t have those. I have this stupid ragged haircut, and it looks a bit like a rat died somewhere up there.

 I try Hair Down. A bit dodgy. Nice and natural, though. Perhaps I could go for the Wild Girl Look.

Hair Up. It’s decent, actually. I kinda like it.

BUT. Underneath the beauty, there’s another layer. The _Strategy_. I have to think this through. This hang-out… it’s in the Casual category. I can’t look like I stressed over the outfit, but still look appealing. Hair Up will look like a Tryhard. Hair Down looks a bit shit. It’s a tough bargain, but there’s nothing worse than being a Tryhard. Hair Down it is.

Then I stop myself. I take a step back. Pace myself.

_Why am I getting so stressed over this? What the fuck??_

This is stupid. I don’t get it. I have to leave soon. I’ve seen my ass in this mirror _five_ times now, and each time it looks objectively worse.

I stare at my reflection. She stares back. We’re both ugly as all living fuck. We both have absolutely no clue what in the literal shit we’re doing.

I want to be comfortabLE BUT COMFORT LOOKS STUPID. DO I STILL WEAR THE LEATHER JACKET? JACKET: WHITE. DRESS: GREEN. IT COULD LOOK OKAY.

MAYBE.

 _I_ _DON’T KNOW_. Stats. Stats. I need stats. Where are the stats? _Where are the stats?_

Dress, uh… fuckin’… **Attack:** 73\. Sure. **Summary** : yeah. **Defence** : 92838978794. **Average** … did average come next? Was that how it went? How do I calculate the average? That’s not even the right order, is it??

**_I  D O N ’ T  K N O W._ **

My knees give way. I slide down to the ground. My reflection does the same. No shit.

I crawl and crawl and crawl until I can’t see myself and Mirror Amy can’t see me. I’m slumped six metres away from the mirror, lying in a heap of my own mistake.

I’m crying. This is stupid. Why am I crying? _Control yourself_.

I plant my face into the carpet. Wet, wet, _oh fuck_. I just don’t know _why_ I’m crying, and that makes me feel even worse.

I’ve lost track of time. Alan’s probably waiting for me. Or he’s gone home. I’m fine with that. I’m chronically late. I’m an asshole. Understandable. I’m going to lie here until I possibly feel a bit less shit.

My mind is blank. My thoughts are silent. There’s nothing really going on. My eyes are squeezed tight, and that’s all I’m focussed on.

I lift my head. Rub my eyes. Take a deep breath. I squint, un-squint, squint, un-squint, and let it fall into a steady pattern.

_Yes. Patterns. They’re always good._

I inch across the floor. I reach my bed, and laugh. I just laugh, until I’m fizzed up enough to forget about everything. My chest feels a bit empty, but it’s nothing new.

Energy: recharged.

Sanity: recovered.

Panic: averted.

_Booyah._

I go to check my phone. Lock screen’s littered with texts from Alan. I shove down the dread.

 

On 16/10, at 9:40 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> wakey wakey eggs and bakey

On 16/10, at 9:42 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> sorry, i tried to come up with something more original but i’m afraid to say i have failed you

On 16/10, at 9:45 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> amy?

On 16/10, at 9:45 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> you’ve got fuckin do not disturb on again haven’t you

On 16/10, at 9:45 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> why won’t you ever use the alarm clock

On 16/10, at 9:46 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> it was vintage

On 16/10, at 9:46 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> cost $40

On 16/10, at 9:47 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> how much does it cost for your respect? :0

On 16/10, at 9:47 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> how much does it cost for you to mcfucking wake up

On 16/10, at 9:49 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> amy i don’t want to call

On 16/10, at 9:49 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> i also don’t want to text your mum because i know she thinks i’m weird

On 16/10, at 9:52 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> never mind i texted your mum

On 16/10, at 9:54 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> has she done anything?? sorry if she woke you up

On 16/10, at 9:55 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> i’m not really sorry you deserve every second of it

On 16/10, at 9:56 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> nevermind, i do feel bad

On 16/10, at 9:56 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> sorry!

On 16/10, at 10:08 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> holy smokes are you even alive

On 16/10, at 10:08 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> sorry i’m sure i sound needy, but are you ready yet?

On 16/10, at 10:08 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> if not, don’t worry! take your time!!

On 16/10, at 10:08 am, _alana_ _banana_ wrote:

> i’ll be waiting! i don’t mind

(Then he edited it to ‘i’ll be waiting! i don’t mind!! :,)’)

 

And then there’s, like, three million missed calls. Do Not Disturb is awesome.

I want to text him a reply, I really do, but I can’t think up anything that could possibly make up for being so fucking tardy. And for trashing his vintage alarm clock. I clear the notifications. Guilt weighs like sin on my back.

I squint at the time. I don’t even believe it myself.

_Eleven fifteen._

**_Holy shit._ **


	12. A Mess

**AMY**

I step outside and I’m greeted by Cal. Or, the disembodied, disgusted voice of Cal’s from behind the gate.

“Thank fuck!” I hear him saying, “I’ve been standing out here – cold, freezing and alone – for _years_.”

I try to find him. I can see his arm waving in and out of view.

“Why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?” I ask. He doesn’t seem to hear me. I consider repeating, but don’t really see him providing a response worth the time and effort. I’ll just give him what he wants and we can both move on with our lives.

“Okay, I’ll open the gate!” I move to do just that.

Press the button, and BAM. Cal is in, everyone is happy.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he exclaims, and he doesn’t even sound grateful; he just sounds tired.

I plant the house keys under three layers of fake flowerpot. “Whatcha got there?” I ask him absently.

“Your game,” he spits, holding it out to me like one might do with trash to a trash can. “Some Japanese bullshit.”

Ah, yes. _Mew Mew Kissy Friends_. Kinda hoped he’d never give it back.

“It’s a _dating sim_ ,” I provide. “It’s kinda like downgraded porn.”

“Except for sad, lonely freaks.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Cal shrugs. “Just take it.”

I give him the side-eye. “Just put it under the welcome mat, since you’re so good at doing that.”

He gives me his own side-eye, then reluctantly stoops down to tuck the Sin under the mat. I thank him for being as worried about its visibility as I am.

“So,” I start, casually, “who was your favourite girl?”

He ponders it over for a while. He closes his eyes. “… Carry, I’d say.”

Carry. Canadian. Short, sweet, scrawny. She’s a ginger. Something tells me I am _not_ Cal’s type.

“Interesting choice,” I say, and I try not to sound too sour.

His eyes snap open, and it’s like he’s scanning me down. Eventually, he takes a breath. “So, what’s the plan?” Oh, he noticed my clothes. The Dress. “Going out with Taila and the midget?”

I half laugh (I exhale very loudly through my nose). See, that sounds like it’d be a real _cracker_ , but it’s really not once you’ve heard it about sixteen thousand times over.

I shake my head, remembering Cal’s asked me a question. “Actually, I’m going out with Alan today.”

Then it’s like the atmosphere takes a swan-dive. The air seems to freeze, and Cal’s stilled. I can somewhat tell what he’s thinking. _The Fault In My Wording_.

He opens his mouth: “On a _date_?”

 _Aha_. Look. It’s the Question. Saw this coming miles away.

“We’re going to the fuckin’ Naruto convention centre,” I leer without meaning to, “take a wild guess.”

He pins down whatever aggravation I’ve grown with a sharp gaze, and I fall back to nothing. It’s clear—he’s mad. But I don’t know why.

“Do you think Frazer’ll think lightly of that?”

I’m confused. I don’t know when and why Cal’s brought Frazer into this, but, okay. Not really important.

It’s Cal’s low, quiet voice that concerns me. I fight the urge to step back, and stare up at him. But his eyes quickly flitter away.

His hands shake slightly, and he bites down on his bottom lip. Like he’s trying to hold something back.

I can’t tell what it is. I can’t tell why he’d get so riled up over this. I mean, sure, be understanding and shit, but this has to be at _least_ a little bit ridiculous. If I lash out, I’ll be the dick, but is that really any different from what he’s doing right now?

And besides, I don’t have the energy to be dealing with this right now. I decide not to search for any deeper meaning in his words, and take them as-is. I cock an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s been determined that Phoebe’s going to be the one drawing for the movie,” I say slowly. I’ve got this lazy, shit-eating grin on my face, and, yes, I am very much patronising him. I think he needs it. “I don’t have to meet up with Frazer anymore.”

“You weren’t chosen, so you’re just giving up?” he shoots back immediately.

The first thing that pops into my head is just sheer _what the fuck?_. And it’s pretty accurate. I don’t see any other way to react to him being a Huge Dick.

I squint, trying to make some sense of what he’s said. I bet it’s just some strange, abstract shit again. Like the whole ‘prince’ thing a few days ago. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to pay it any mind. No mind. None at all.

I’m not going to let this ruin my day.

“You know what? I’m not going to take this shit from you today,” I say, and, sure, I feel a bit guilty. Not guilty enough to quit. “I’m going to leave and today is going to be great and I am going to have a great time.” I’m not really talking to Cal anymore. It’s more of a reminder to myself. A reminder that Alan has invited me out for a day and that I am not going to mess this up.

I look up at Cal. His mouth is set in a straight line and his face is all scrunched up, and I can hear him mumble a faint, “Fine.” Then he’s gone. Just like that.

My chest aches and although I will myself not to care about Cal and his stupid melodrama, at this point I can’t tell if this strangling sensation is because I’ve acted like a complete ass or if it’s because I’m a sad, laughable human being who can’t even keep up a normal functioning relationship without rigging another.

 _Cal doesn’t even like you at all. Or, if he_ did _, he doesn’t anymore. You don’t have a chance. Not at all._

Cal’s going to go find a beautiful, small, sweet Canadian girlfriend and they’re going to be super cute together and he’s going to forget about me. I’ll see him less and less. He’ll get married. He’ll have small, cute kids with his small, cute wife. He’ll move on and be happy with his life without me in it. He won’t need me anymore.

My mind’s racing and my body’s shaking, but I know I can’t have a panic attack here, now. Over something so small—so sad, so unstable. Cal’s way out of my league, anyway. I’ll die alone. And that’ll be completely fine with me.

All completely understandable.

With trembling hands, I thumb out a playlist of distracting music saved on my phone. I press my hands over my earphones to ground myself. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I stare up at the sky. It doesn’t really stare back. Still, it’s a nice anchor to Earth. It’s calming. I’m still useless and disgusting, but it’s not that big of a deal.

It’s kinda funny, actually.


	13. The Naruto Convention Centre (NCC)

**AMY**

“Amy, you okay?”

“Hah?”

My shoulders shake; I bring myself back to this plane of existence and try to work out whose voice is whose. First one: definitely not mine. Last time I addressed myself in the third person was in fifth grade.

I squint until my eyes form very small Asian slits and I see Alan, who’s sitting across the table rocking the Concerned _Mum Away From Home_ Style, drink in hand. I stare at the ceiling and it wobbles ever so slightly. I’m not sure if it’s an earthquake or LSD.

I bring myself back to Alan. His figure blurs into two, splits into seventy-three separate Alans, then eventually conforms to the laws of physics and comes back into focus while I question how much weed I’ve been smoking.

I look down at the glass I’m apparently holding. It’s cold and it’s clear. Nice.

Y’know, I’d like to think that past me ordered a super fancy and sophisticated drink, but it was just Coke. Boring old Coke. Sakura’s deformed face peeks out from underneath the glass. Cute coaster.  

Oh! There’s some ice still in there! I absentmindedly scoop a cube into my mouth and rest it on my tongue.

_Nice. Cool. New._

Alan eyes me. He picks up an ice cube, raises his eyebrows and studies it for a while. I sit with my jaw hung open and a cube freezing my brain.

He must see the pain in my face because he starts rolling his cube about his palm instead. Ever the wise. I can feel Jack Frost’s fingers curling around my neck and giving it a good squeeze. I _might_ be dying.

“You don’t seem to have much of an appetite, hey?” Alan muses, tilting his head. “Is it because of the heat?”

“Summer heat my ass,” I shoot back, “All this unoriginal Naruto scum’s got me worn out. Would it kill to dress up as someone else?”

Alan shrugs. “He’s pretty hot, though.”

“I thought you had a thing for Hinata.”

He hums. “Her too.”

Fair point.

We share a dollop of silence. I classify it Awkward.

Then Alan speaks up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. My brain punches itself.

I give him a small thumbs-up. “Peachy.” (‘Peachy’? Since when do I say ‘peachy’?) “Really. Sorry for spacing out like that.”

The words just come out so naturally—I almost convince myself that everything’s fine and dandy between the waters of Cal and I.

Alan’s not convinced. Has this dude always been so hard to convince?

“… Did something happen between you and that guy? Cal? Calvin?” he asks. My brain gorges out its nuts with a rusty spoon.

**_whERE DID HE GET THAT. HOW DID HE COME TO THAT CONCLUSION._ **

I’ve only talked about Cal, like… _seventeen_ times today. And only ten of them were me anxious screaming. (The other seven were about how hot he is because, god, have you even seen the dude? He is _so_ hot. I would _so_ nut all over his face.)

Point is. Alan is right. And that is a problem.

“It’s not a big deal or anything, though…” I say, I smile, and I finger gun. The click is really loud and not at all casual. I wince. “Aaaaaaahh, I just don’t get it at all! Cal’s so hard to understand!! What’s he even thinking? Ever?!”

Not a big deal. At all.

I sigh. Alan shifts a tad closer.

“Have you talked to him about it?” he asks softly.

“Of course not!” I almost yell. He hints to lower the volume and I take it. “There’s no way I could just bring that up.”

He counters immediately. “But why? It’s bothering you, right?”

I don’t have a counter-counterattack. I sit there and gawk.

_Like aiming for the first thing, instead of stalling, huh?_

“Wow… Meeting up with you in person is really something different, hey? There’s no way I could’ve detected all this change last summer!” I sigh, but this time in newfound satisfaction. “Like, not just appearance wise. You’re a lot more upfront in the way you carry yourself,” and I regret not noting this sooner, “You’re like a graceful, aggressive swan.”

However that works. He doesn’t question it, and I don’t either.

The Alan from just a few years ago would spend weeks and weeks wondering and pondering the right way to ask someone out as his English Project Partner. I’d walk into his room and find millions upon billions of charts, scrapped plans, and scripts. We would sit on his dirty beige carpet and scream into the social void. I remember once I won a debate about how to pronounce _floccinaucinihilipilification_ as a shit-spoken twelve-year-old and it was probably the proudest moment of my life.

The Alan from now smiles. Alan and smiles get along like a house on fire.

“Do you… really think so?” He sounds so happy. I rub my hands together and smile like a doctor’s jammed a moulding stick into my mouth. Then, like he’s letting me in on a deadly secret, he lowers his voice and puts a smart finger to his temple, “But if I have, it’s because you’ve given me that push from behind.”

I smile absently at the void as my cogs slowly slot themselves back together. It takes me a second to register what he’s saying and I slam my arms down on the table in pure disbelief.

I shriek a little. “Me? But I haven’t done anything!”

And like I’ve just relayed the funniest punchline known to man, Alan bends over in a fanatical burst of laughter. I chuckle weakly. I don’t get the joke.

He shoots an arm around my shoulder and presses me in. “That is,” he gasps for air, “ _exactly_ ,” his pupils dilate, “what I thought you’d say!” His eyes are literally jittering. Chill. Real chill.

“Did I really say something so funny…?” I whisper. A tiny sprinkling of hope lies in my voice, ready to pounce upon the chance to be truly acknowledged as An Actual Funny Person (instead of the usual: Delusional).

Alan shakes his head, and my heart falls just the tiniest bit. No biggie.

“No, I was just thinking about how completely _wrong_ you are.” He takes a sip from his iced tea; he speaks with the calmness of a sage. Sick recovery.

“You’ve done the world for me,” he says, wistful smile and all. “You’re the _reason_ I changed.”

I don’t know what he’s saying, but it _sounds_ like bullshit. I’ve never changed anyone for the better.

“You might not fully grasp the influences you’ve had on me because it just comes so naturally to you,” he continues, “and I really like you. So I’ve been trying to emulate you.”

He says that as if it’s a good thing. Shivers.

I blink. “Is that… really how it is?”

Alan nods. “That’s how I think it is.”

I can’t really say I understood any of that. Even if it wasn’t the weekend and even if I did sleep at a reasonable time, I still don’t think I would’ve gotten a word of what he just said. Maybe I’m just slow.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

I blink again. He clarifies.

“In relation to your…” he pauses, searches for the right word, “ _situation_ with Calvin, since the two of you are so close, it’s probably just natural for you to understand what the other’s thinking. But, y’know, creepy telepathy isn’t the key to everything. It may have caused the two of you to lose the chance to communicate your feelings.” He sounds like my therapist, which is remarkable because, one, my therapist is a high-pitched lady; and two, she’s forty.

He laughs. “You’re never the type to talk about anything serious, anyway.”

I blink. Understandingly.

 _Lost the chance to communicate our feelings_ _…_

I repeat the phrase to myself, and the fog clogging my brain begins to clear. I guess I’ve never felt the need to bog anyone down with my Feelings. I’ve never felt the need to confront anyone about theirs. I just… interpret things in a way that makes it convenient for me. Cower away from the truth.

_Maybe Cal and I need a heart-to-heart. Once I pull my head out of my ass, I’ll find an awkward icebreaker and attempt to make pleasant chat with Cal._

 Yes. Okay. Good.

I realise I haven’t said anything when Alan lowers his head. “But maybe I’m wrong,” he’s saying, “maybe you’ve changed a lot, too. You can’t really… _tell_ a lot over text, hey?”

“No, no, no don’t apologise!” I flap my arms wildly. “Can’t believe you’ve already forgotten what I taught you…”

It’s a lame, forced joke. Any good humour of mine has wafted off, leaving only the husk of a teen wielding twelve-year-old comedy.

Alan receives it that way, too. He gives a hollow chuckle.

“No, I’ve got it,” he says, with little to no enthusiasm. “‘Only apologise if the police can see it’.”

Did I really say that? How edgy was I? How edgy had I taught him to be? God, I _am_ a bad influence.

Cringe nibbles at my limbs and eats out my brain, but, by comedian’s oath, this brave hero abidingly trudges along the tracks of her sad joke.

I awkwardly touch his head in what’s supposed to be a friendly pat, trying desperately not to ruin the magnificent curls he’s miraculously managed to work. “I’ve taught you well!”

He smiles in a way that’s no way a smile. I just _want_ it to be a smile so I can forget about my comedic shortcomings.

I heave a long sigh, dangling my fork into the lunch I left to rot. I wave it above Alan’s nose.

“Want some pasta? It’s still warm.” Which is horrifying.

Alan looks up. He’s got an expression like he’s got something to say, but doesn’t actually say anything. My eyes question his, but he shakes his head.

He honestly just looks disappointed.

_Did he get tired of me?_

I furrow my brows, trying not to look hurt. I mean, yeah, I’d get tired of me, too. I’m probably the worst conversational partner anyone could ever ask for. (Not _ask_. That’s the wrong word. More like… cursed to be bound with.)

Alan gave me actual helpful advice. All I did was shame him for being nice. (I hate the fact that rhymes.)

Silence sits itself between the two of us.

Honestly, I never really noticed how much I missed Alan until he came back. Like, calling and texting was definitely a thing, but there’s also definitely a difference between reading someone’s diluted 3am texts and sitting around with them in person at an anime convention, clinging onto their arm like the touch-starved bitch you are.

I’ve been nothing but a dull, boring friend all day, but he’s still here, smiling and laughing and making jokes and being an overall awesome dude. I do love him a lot, really. He’s like an honorary family member.

This warm, tingly sensation ripples through my body. I stretch my legs on instinct.

 _…_ _I’m happy._

A wistful smile settles itself onto my lips. I think.

I lean into my palm, and give him a casual sideways glance. “Hey, Alan?”

His eyes question mine.

“Thanks,” I say. It sounds kinda rusty. “You’re a good friend.” I shoot him a thumbs-up to make-up for the awkward exchange.

His expression softens. “I could say the same to you…” He smiles, but I can tell he’s a bit distracted. “Amy.”


	14. An Even Bigger Mess

**AMY**

Was the convention a success? No. It was like a game of human Bumper Cars and I’m stained with so much sweat that isn’t even mine.

I think my biggest and saddest update is that I didn’t even get to _talk_ to Kishimoto-sensei, because my anxiety whipped out a huge strap-on and pounded my ass, and I’m going to think back on this and cry for the next month, probably. So now we’re here, Alan and I, on the road, a few streets away from home.

I sneak a peek at the boy bounding beside me. Alan’s eyes are shining. Like… Like little suns. Yes. A good comparison.

Yeah, I wasn’t all thrilled when he offered to see me off—not because he was a bother, but because we’d reached that point of the day where every possible conversation topic had been worn to death. Now there’s just the ghost of What Could’ve Been hanging between us.

See, _this_ is why we never go past 1pm. He’s been surprisingly stubborn all day. I don’t know _what_ Alan’s thinking, but someone had better fill the silence before I melt into the ground.

We’re getting closer and closer to my house. I can see the clunky solar panels peeking out from behind the trees.

I’ve got to make a decision soon. I weigh my options again. And again. And again. Factor in more other variables for the hell of it. Parallel universes. Coffee Shop AU. Furry AU (I’ve imagined this one a lot, actually. Alan’s a mouse. I’m a cockroach. Cal’s some kind of big and bold and handsome eagle).

Post ponder, I stop in my tracks.

Now to let him down gently. Slowly position the pitchfork.

“Bud,” _ouch, bud_ , “you really don’t have to walk me all the way,” I say, training my eyes on the nearby bush, tree, bench—anything and everything but the nearby Alan Giffard. “You won’t remember your way back to the station.”

He stares ahead for a while. “Alright,” he says eventually. “Don’t want to be a bother to you, after all.”

I give a wry smile. Great. He thinks he’s a burden. Why did I even say anything.

 _He’s been like this all day_ _…_

Alan’s always been a respectable, awkward dude, but he’s cranked it up to a full 10 today. Like some kind of servant roleplay I never signed up for.

He’s held open every single door for me (I think I’ve made the “no but it’s _ladies_ first” joke at least three times today and he’s politely laughed every time but I can see him dying inside). God, he tucks in my chairs. Last time that happened was never. He’s really living up to the whole bishounen thing… My skin is crawling.

Now, I’m not that smart, but I do know three things:

Number 1: Alan’s a super nice person.

Number 2: He’s super stingy.

Number 3: I’ll never be able to repay him for anything, because a) he won’t accept it, and b) I could lay out my life and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And until I’ve become a person deserving of Alan, I’ll just have to focus on showing gratitude like a Normal, Functioning Human Being.

Hah. Yeah. Real easy.

I slide another look to Alan. He’s humming a quiet tune, a big bound to his step. He seems a bit distracted. Good. I’ve got time.

Next step: the _Words_.

‘Thanks.’ No, I can’t just say thanks. I have to say thanks _for_ something. ‘Thanks for taking me out.’ No, what am I? Hungry Jacks? ‘Thanks for…’ Thanks for what? Thanks for the day? I’m thanking _Alan_ , not the Sun.

… Thanks for _to_ day? Do people still say that? They do, right? They totally do. I can say that. It’s decided.

‘Thanks for today.’ Yes. That sounds good. Now, where do I put the emphasis? ‘ _Thanks_ for today’? ‘Thanks _for_ today’? ‘Thanks for to _day_ ’? Three words. Four syllables. A slip of the tongue can make all the difference.

I’ve got to sound grateful. I’ve got to sound sincere. Somehow those two never mix well. I end up sounding confused. I can’t sound confused.

Grateful: activated.

Sincere: activated.

Practice: in session.

 _Thanks for today. Thanks for today. Thanks_ _…_ _for today. Thanks for today! Thanks FOR today!! THANKS. FOR. TODAY._

One, two, three, four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight, nine.

Ten.

Time to rumble. I face Alan with a wide, dorky grin.

“Thanks for today!” Hell yeah! Nailed it! “You’re the best, you know that?”

He shakes his head. He’s got a smile wider than mine. “No, thank _you_ ,” he says, and it sounds so perfect and he didn’t even have to rehearse. “It was… like a dream.”

_Okay. What? Okay, what?_

I give him a sceptical look. _Woah, woah, woah, woah—Back. It. Up._

“You… _surely_ mean a nightmare.” I do the ol’ obnoxious nudge n’ laugh. And it’s here that I learn not to be fooled by his thin appearance; he’s fucking ripped. I mean, as ripped as a twig can get, but it still takes me by surprise. Where does he find the determination? It has to be a drug of some sort, definitely.

“A-Amy!” he suddenly goes. Alan grabs on tight to my wrist. There’s a certain seriousness about his eyes that sucks the air right out of me.

_Wait, is he the type that doesn’t like being touched? Shit._

It completely slipped my mind. Cal&Co. don’t mind it, but I’m just now remembering that Alan’s never really liked human contact. Or any sort of contact, really. I move to apologise, but the command is almost instantly overridden by the sound of a bicycle going by right behind me. I flinch without thinking, and Alan drops my hand immediately.

“S-Sorry!” he splutters, “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m all good. I should be the one sorry for hitting you like that.” I’d make my apology more heartfelt, but I’m too busy awkwardly eyeing the bike. It’s a perfectly ordinary ladies’ bike, with bags upon bags of groceries stacked up front. There’s also a _woman_ riding (she’s short and plump and cute and brunette), and definitely _not_ who I was looking out for.

And then my vision’s blocked by Alan’s adorable face. “Amy, what’s the matter?”

I blink a few times before I can answer. “N-Nothing…” I mumble, “Just remembered his usual route…”

Seems like I’ve caught the bug for leaving out important details and saying things out of context. Must be from Cal.

Alan still catches on. He twirls around for a glance at the road, then clicks his tongue. “Oh,” he says eventually. “You mean Calvin’s.”

I frown. How does he know that? Am I just that obvious? He’s perfect, isn’t he? He’s perfect.

I attempt to unravel the inner workings of Alan Giffard’s curious mind, but he grabs my wrist again and my thoughts seep out like gas from a faulty pipe. He hauls me towards him – with amazing ease considering me and my devastating weight – and my head lands _bam-splat_ right into his collarbone. 

That must fuckin’ _hurt_ , but I’m figuring that whatever pills Alan’s on must also be working wonders for his overall _defence_ because he’s withstood my fat head against his tiny neck like a champ. His arm slips around my back; tugs my chubby body towards his. Oh, joy. A hug. Love those. (It’s a bit more tolerable hugging Alan than Dad; at least his pits don’t reek.)

He’s too warm, too _real_ , for it to be a fever dream, but I still swear I’m tripping on at least seven million shrooms.

“I wish you could see the face you just made,” he’s saying, no more than a soft breath against my ear. I squirm to face him like a normal, polite person, but Alan seems to take it the wrong way because he only tightens his grip. I give up on any hope of social norms.

Firstly, I don’t understand what he said. I need the whole package – y’know, both expression and words – to do a full analysis.

And secondly, I didn’t hear what he said, either. I heard “face”. Cool. That’ll take me far.

I can’t think of anything to say, so all that comes out is some weird “ _eeennnggghhhh_ ” noise.

“If you’ll give me the chance, I’ll never give you reason to look so disappointed,” he continues (I didn’t know I looked _disappointed_ ), “I’ll strive to make you satisfied.” His heartbeat thumps loudly against my chest. Or maybe it’s mine; the pounding of my own heartbeat is starting to settle in with his, like a staggering machine gun.

My head starts to throb and I’m not too sure why. There’s just a strange pressure shooting up to my brain and I’m growing dizzier and dizzier by the second. It kinda hurts, I guess.

Alan’s body shudders as he takes his next breath. “So, instead of Calvin—”

“Instead of me what?”

There’s a sharp snarl from behind me. There’s a certain voice from behind me. My voice box crackles as it tries to make out his name.

Alan stills. Without an anchor, my body sags away from his. Pathetic.

The sunset determines Cal’s face unreadable. I can’t see his expression. I don’t really try to.

“Say… Alan, is it?” He moves a step closer. Alan doesn’t respond.

The _ten_ sion in _ten_ sifies. It’s funny. (No it’s not.)

“Have you ever heard of the term ‘PDA’? It means to be mindful of how to act in certain times, places, and occasions,” Cal lists off, and I still can’t detect _the_ emotion but I know it’s there. Cal’s feeling ____. What’s the blank? I don’t know. I can’t think. My mind is numb.

“This is a public place, where neighbourhood residents like myself could just come walking by,” he continues, “If you’re so callous about things like that in public, you’ll cause trouble for Amy.”

Cause trouble? What’s causing trouble? Alan’s not causing trouble… he’s a good child…

“‘Things like that’?” Alan asks. There’s some dry humour laced beneath his words; he doesn’t sound like he’s genuinely confused. Alan’s provoking Cal—and he bites the bullet.

Cal clicks his tongue, moves another step closer to Alan. “I _mean_ , if you have the time to acting like her little boyfriend there, then at least think about her feelings more.”

 Boyfriend. Feelings. That’s all I really register. Alan’s face displays no apparent reaction, either.

“Shouldn’t you be following your own advice first?” he asks, and a vicious smile breaks across his face, the way it does when he wins a game of _Monopoly_.

“No need to.”

The smile disappears. His eyes widen very slightly, before narrowing into a harsh glare. I’m standing here – just standing here – blinking. I don’t really know what’s happening. I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I don’t really care.

That’s a lie. I care a lot.

Alan inhales sharply. “And may I ask why that is?”

“Amy and I are neighbours,” Cal’s saying. “Everyone knows that.”

Yeah. That’s true. I know that. Yes.

“Ah, yes, simply neighbours,” Alan scoffs. Now there’s no humour. Just plain resent. “I see your point.”

Cal only grows more and more agitated. He takes a few deep breaths, and manages to catch the coattails of being chill.

I’m not so lucky. I want to – _need_ to – say something, but I can’t find my voice. I can’t find anything, actually. There’s this thin blanket of confusion and hatred settling over my brain, and it’s limiting literally every cognitive function I have.

The more impatient I get, the more my throat clogs up.

 _I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what’s going on_. My mind feels so empty, yet so pressured and crowded and full at the same time. I can’t focus.

I hate Cal. I hate him for barging in. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

_Ugh. Shut up._

No I don’t. I don’t at all. It’s me. I’m the one I hate. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so angry and tired in my whole life.

I blink furiously. I stare hard at the two. I don’t have a plan. I just hope, desperately hope, that somehow it’ll work out and the clouds will go away and it’ll stop looking so dark and Alan can go back to being happy again. And that it’ll all be sunshine and rainbows, but it _won’t_ work out because life doesn’t work that way.

_Ugh._

Cal’s the first one to notice. Our eyes meet, and he looks so startled. More wrinkles cluster between his eyebrows. _What? Did it backfire? Does he think I’m standing up for Alan?_

His eyes are soft, tender. I don’t know what that means.

“In any case, you’ve even managed to make Amy cry,” he says.

 _Cry_ _…_ _? I’m not_ _…_

I feel a dampness drip-drip-dripping down my collarbone, and I taste a grotesque mixture of copper and salt in my mouth. Tears…? Why tears? I’m not even sad. I’m confused.

_What the hell’s happening?_

My vision blurs over, dusted in this glossy filter. I blink but I can’t get it to go away.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot! This isn’t the time to be crying!_

My chest is pounding hard. My head is throbbing hard. The thoughts are accelerating. I want them to slow so I can breathe but they won’t. My breaths come out in small gasps; my throat burns with words I can’t say.

I know I have to apologise to Alan. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. He doesn’t deserve anything he’s gone through today. He just wanted a nice hangout and it’s all turned to shit and it’s my fault. I’m always the problem. I’m too tired for a fucking pity party.  

Home. Have to get home.

I’m not thinking straight when I start to run. My brain shouts dry commands; my limbs don’t obey. My movements are jerky and I keep twitching, but I’m not going to stop.

Alan says something. Something. Something.

Cal’s shouting. He just shouts and shouts and shouts and it’s so loud. Their voices become jumbled and I can’t make sense of any of them.

Then they’re just… gone. I can’t hear them anymore. I can’t tell if they’ve just ceased, or I’m just that drugged up, but all I can hear is my heartbeat. Unsteady. Erratic.

I stumble a little. I’m drifting in and out of consciousness.

I don’t know exactly _what_ I’m running from. But when I imagine ever, ever having to meet their gazes ever again, panic bubbles steady and my limbs feel weak and my stomach knots. There are chains fastened around my chest, and though they usually just hang loosely around me, they’re still always _there_. Not always restricting, but always applying pressure.

Now they’re tugging again, retracting, hurting, so I keep running. Anything, _anything_ to be distracted from these rusty chains.

I see the door. Good. Great. This is great.

I make a final push. Grasp onto the doorknob. I glance around. Cal’s not here. Cal’s not close. He’s probably gone home. Given up. Which is fine. I didn’t expect him to chase me anyway.

Ring the doorbell or fumble around for my keys? I don’t even remember where they are, and my head is throbbing enough for a migraine. I reach for the doorbell, stopping momentarily to notice my own quivering fingers. God, I hadn’t realised how nervous my body is.

Then I press the ringer. I wait the chimes out. The noise of the doorbell usually soothes me, but today it only seems to make everything worse. Have they always been this loud? Have they always taken this long? Doorbells are only supposed to be three seconds max. That one ring took at least ten. I’m sure.

I ring the doorbell again. Still no answer. I press it again. And again. And again. I’m slamming my hand against the ringer. My eyes dart around. Mum isn’t even home, is she? Did she go out today? I can’t remember. This ringer is too loud. I’m bothering everyone else in the neighbourhood. They all hate me. They’re going to charge me for being a public nuisance. Mum’s going to get fined. She’ll hate me. Cal hates me. Alan hates me. Everyone hates me. I don’t know how they’ve put up with me for so long.

I won’t be surprised if Alan never wants to hang with me again. Completely understandable. I’m sad, but I shouldn’t be.

The chains give a firm squeeze.

I’m an asshole. I want to go home. I want to go to my room, watch some porn, maybe overdose on some pills. Off myself. That sounds great. Might as well, am I right? I have the power to. No consequences. Just death as far as the eye can see.

There really is something wrong with me, isn’t there? The idea of murder is disgusting and horrible and there’s also a _lot_ of blood. I don’t like blood.

I can’t actually kill myself.

Wow! I can’t believe Amy Adams has finally gone insane! God, she’s such a loser!

“FUCK, just SHUT UP, Amy!”

I make frantic grabs at my hair. _I_ said that. That was me. I _am_ going crazy.  

The world’s spinning again. Is this vertigo? I don’t have vertigo. What’s happening?

I slide to the ground. Doesn’t make it feel any better. Just a fifteen-year-old girl sobbing on the grass. What a fucking beauty.

_Why am I here? What have I done here? I’m dying here. I’m going to die here. I’ll get what I fucking deserve._

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know who to call, what’s their number, who to call, too far away, Alan’s gone, he’s gone, _breathe_ , gone, what number, too far away—

_Why’re you being such a drama queen? Your problems are tiny. Idiot._

One, two, three, four, fivesixseveneight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Counting isn’t working. One! Three! Five, seven. Ten. Three hundred? Five _billion_?

**_SEVENTEEN SEVENTY SIX?_ **

I’ve curled up into a ball. Where is he, who to call, what’s the number… I cling desperately to the ground. I shut my eyes tight. I can’t look up, or I’ll vomit.

God, fucking—what the hell is happening to me?

_You want to disappear, Amy. Do you get what this means? Thinking about how better off the world would be without you, and all this death. You want to die._

I cling tighter to the ground, picking off a few strands of grass. (What do I do with these? Eat them?)

I need air. I was forgetting to breathe, silly Amy. Idiot Amy. Pathetic, bastard Amy.

Whips attack my back; they move up to assault my throat. They reach their destination and they don’t let go. Whips wrap around my neck and pull themselves into a knot. I can’t breathe again. Damn it, I can’t breathe!

Why can’t I breathe?

This is stupid. What a pathetic death this’ll be, laying on the doorstep, soaked in my own sweat.

_I don’t want to die. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. I really don’t. I want to hope that tomorrow will be better._

 

I heave a small breath, then stop trying.


	15. happy thoughts happy thoughts happy thoughts

**CALVIN**

My arms hang limply at my sides as I watch Amy stagger away. She’s not running and I can easily catch up to her if I wanted to, but I don’t.

“Ah— Hold up!” Alan says. It’s not very loud. It’s like he’s scared he’ll say the wrong words. 

All I shout is her name. Amy. Amy! _Amy_! Again and again and again.

I don’t tell her to slow down. I don’t tell her to stop.

She’s halfway down the footpath. _Pitter-patter-pitter-patter_ go her footsteps, but all I hear is _echo, echo, echo_ inside my head.

I shout her name again, because it’s the only word that manages to float to the surface. Everything else is buried beneath a thick layer of some kind of emotion I don’t understand.

I extend an arm, for no reason, really, and then drop it again. My head’s still throbbing, so I send an arm up there. I start to pat my left temple, and when I try to press any harder, a stab of pain shoots through my veins.

I shut my eyes tight and free a sharp hiss, staggering backwards as my vision blurs.

“Hmph?” Alan makes a muffled noise. Sounds like he’s half-assed an attempt at acting concerned. Whatever. It’s the thought that counts, blah, blah, blah. I don’t really care, and I know he doesn’t either.

I open my eyes and I don’t look at Alan because I don’t want to. Instead, I focus on some pebbles lying just off the sidewalk. Peaceful. Sweet.

To be completely honest, I don’t know how to feel. I mean, I’m not a _blank slate_ , but neither am I filled to the brim with emotion. I don’t even know what just happened. One second I’m walking down the footpath and the next Amy’s left the exact same way. Then, it’s as if my other thoughts have been detained to a firm enigma. I can’t find them.

Wow. Malfunctions? In _my_ head? It’s more likely than you think.

Alan clears his throat and my mind at the exact same time. My eyes are drawn to him immediately, which both disgusts and disturbs me.

He speaks up. “Hey, Calvin?”

I give him the Hum of Irritation. He seems to take the hint.

“Please…” Alan pauses. He takes a deep breath, and it’s like he’s reassembling the pieces in his mind. “You two are neighbours, correct?”

Hum of Confirmation.

“Please… Please make sure she’s okay.” His voice trembles. It’s even softer than before, and there’s no _trying_ ; he’s fully concerned now. But not for me, of course.

He clutches the collar of his shirt. I absentmindedly whack a foot against the curb. I mean, I’m sure I’ve got concern, too, somewhere within the enigma.

But I can’t find it, so I shrug. “Yeah, okay,” I say, and make it sound just as soft and pathetic as Alan. “Sure.”

Then I walk.

 

My footsteps form a nice rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. Sometimes it’ll skip a beat when a pothole or chipped brick gets in the way.

It’s extremely soothing. I should go on walks like this more often, I decide.

Once I pass the third tree down the lane, I also decide to do some thinking. And some reflecting, I’ll say, as I stare at blurred reflection of myself in the local roadside puddle. _Nice one_. Dark bags under my eyes. Messy hair. Stone-set frown. I’m not the best looking around.

My brain searches desperately for a distraction from me and my everything, so I cast a look at the sky. It’s absolutely going to rain.

 _Get out into the real world. Ensure Amy’s safety_. Sure. Great idea. I bet Amy would _love_ me around. She’ll see me turn the corner and just go, “Oh, brilliant! Old, disgusting, _ugly_ Calvin Oliver has come to console me! I am saved!”

The world wants to wash me away into nothing, too. Extract the parasite. Clean the wound.

_Jesus Christ._

Maybe my thoughts are just following the dark skies. God, teen angst hits like a truck.

I take a deep breath, and take in the strong scent of precipitation. No. Maybe the heavens will be merciful, and instead, wash only my thoughts away. 

_But is there ever going to be a storm large enough to actually wash away all my sins?_

There’s a faint quacking sound to my left. I turn to spy a lone figure with an iridescent green swoop of colour across its face. Slowly, I inch closer to catch a better look at the bird.

 _Ah_. A male Baikal teal. I’ve never had many opportunities to see the local bird life, but the bright green of its face makes it pretty easy to identify. Just one of the many pieces of information stored in some box I’m ready to open at any given moment.

Too bad the topic of classifying ducks doesn’t come up very often in everyday conversations. But—you can never be too prepared, and you can also never know when you might need to go duck-spotting. And, with god as my witness, when that day comes: I’ll be ready.

It doesn’t seem like there’s any other ducks nearby.

“Are you a loner, little guy?”

The duck eyes me passively.

“It’s probably gonna rain soon.” I squat down. “I guess that’d be fine with you, though, huh?”

The duck, with no readable emotion, starts to back away. Each of its wet steps against the footpath ring another chime of loneliness within the deepest regions of my heart. _So. Our relationship ends at about five metres._

 “Finding any food? I’d help you out, but, uh…” I check my jean pockets. “I ain’t got nothin’.”

The duck maintains its silence. Haha. I’ve been shunned by even the wildlife, the only companions I had to aspire to.

The clouds that’ve been looming ahead all afternoon finally release their cargo. It’s refreshing, but I find myself easily soaked. I’d take off my jacket, but I’m cold. I realise that wearing a wet jacket only makes it colder, but I also realise that taking off a wet jacket has to be the worst kind of experience known to man. So, I’m keeping the jacket equipped. It’s shitty, cheap cotton, anyway.

I watch the duck for a few minutes, as the rain continues to fall all ’round us. It’s actually pretty romantic, but I’m not legally allowed to be thinking those kind of thoughts about a Baikal teal. It continues to fossick around the puddle, anyway, clearly with no intent of interacting with a certain male Blond human any time soon.

_I bet Alan could talk to a duck. A simple, stupid duck._

I lean a cheek against my palm. _Alan_. Makes my blood boil. And it’s a shame I don’t know his last name, because now I can’t curse him without it.

I attempt to catch pure, undiverted eye contact with the duck, but it quickly turns its head every time I’m even close to my goal. Maybe it’s just shy… No reason to be deterred. I’ll continue the conversation staring at the ground, then.

“Hey, have you met Alan?” No response. No surprise. “Well, he’s a bit of an ass, don’t you think?”

The duck looks bored. I don’t blame it: listening to me badmouth Alan must be the absolute highlight of its day.

I hum, and I think I make it sound like I’m at least wistfully interested. I’m actually frustrated to no end, but I know I can’t take it out on a fucking duck.

“I don’t like him,” I grumble. This time I sound like I’m five. I cross my arms to seal the deal. “He keeps taking Amy away from me.”

The duck turns and stares me straight on. ‘ _But she was never yours in the first place_ ,’ it seems to say.  

Or maybe it’s just my anxiety projecting onto the bird. (I really hope so, because I’m not ready to be lectured by a duck.)

“She sorta is,” I argue.

‘ _No, she’s not_.’ It sticks out its bill prudently. ‘ _Are you really planning on monopolising her forever?_ ’

A simmering guilt creeps up my back, but I quickly shake it off. I don’t like this conversation. I’m not going to let a duck bring me down.

“I mean…” I pause.

 _“I’m not going to take this **shit** from you today.”_ Isn’t that what she said this morning? _She doesn’t need you around._

Oh, that’s really funny. Amy didn’t say that. I don’t see why she would. It surprises me how much my mind likes fucking itself sometimes.

“I mean, she hasn’t had a serious relationship besides ours in her entire life,” I say, and I nod to myself in victory. My brain whispers _Alan_ but I swat it off. “I think my chances are best.”

‘ _You guys aren’t_ in _a relationship, Calvin_ ,’ it says. It knows my name. Red light. Either it’s gained conscience, or I’m ascending.

I cross my arms even tighter around my chest.

Yeah, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I move to leave with my crumbling dignity, but the duck doesn’t drop the stare. I get the distinct feeling that I might just catch this duck nibbling off my limbs come Sunday morning if I don’t drive it off now. _This stupid Baikal teal has given me fucking anatidaephobia._

I pat around my jeans again for any sort of peace offering to the king-of-the-road.

There is something, alright. There definitely is something. It’s— It’s a zip-lock bag… filled to the brim with cold, hard corn. I can’t find any plausible reason why that’d be stored so securely in my Adidas jeans, but okay. I’ll take what I can get.

“Hey! Road-king! Do you like corn?” I tear the bag open a little and reach inside, pulling out a chilled fist full of frozen corn. The king’ll have fun biting into this shit.

I attempt to gently toss the corn in the duck’s direction, but instead of landing in a single spot it winds up forming a near-straight line from my squat on the curb to the edge of the duck’s proclaimed land.

The king seems uninterested in corn. _Maybe he didn’t notice?_

I hurl another handful, this time managing to land several pieces closer to the duck’s foraging spot.

“Alright!” I whoop, making the leap from squat to stand. “An S-Rank throw from the master of corn-tossing!”

 This time, the duck acknowledges the corn with one beady eye. Then turns that eye to me. Then back to the corn. Finally, the duck makes a judgement call – and waddles further down the lonely road, far, far away from me.

“M-Mission failure…” I sigh, and rock back on my heels, and look back up at the sky. If Amy was here, would she be entertained? I wonder if she thinks I’m fun. I close my eyes, and Amy laughs and laughs and smiles, so I smile back at her.

_I want to hear that sound again, soon…_

The clouds seem to be thinning. The rain is still falling, but the drops are light and sparse, now.

So I continue down the road.

 

The weight of the rain didn’t seem to really affect me until now. It’s become increasing irritating how every single step is riddled with wet, baggy shorts and itchy balls.

I can see my house peeking out from the trees, though. That means Amy’s place is close. I’ve never realised how long it takes just to get home. When I walked past these bushes, I didn’t think I’d be returning so soon.

I reach the driveway to our garage and my brain kinda stabs itself for a second. I can almost _see_ that stupid Calvin bitch dragging his ass back home after being pissy at Amy for no fucking reason. Dumb bitch.

To be honest, I don’t even know why I got so riled up. Amy’s right: I shouldn’t have asked her about Frazer. Your neighbour trespassing on your grass and then openly discussing your crush probably isn’t the best way to start a morning.

I sigh. Well, y’know. Nevertheless, I’ve solved the puzzle. Found the missing piece. Saved the princess. Found out she wasn’t actually interested in me, but instead in my raven-haired teen angst bullshit.

_I found the answer I was looking for, but why does it hurt so much?_

Frazer. It’s Frazer. It’s always been Frazer. It shouldn’t surprise me.

You know what does surprise me? Frazer doesn’t like her. He likes Taila. And, well, yeah, okay: she’s pretty, she’s smart, but she’s no Amy.

_Amy’s been practicing so hard for this one confession… is it so bad to hope it doesn’t go well?_

If it doesn’t go well, she’ll have to give up on him.

If it doesn’t go well, I’ll be her second choice.

If it doesn’t go well, she’ll be mine.

… Right?

I lean against a brick wall and let my thoughts settle down. I promised I’d support her—blah, blah, blah. I can’t be thinking like this.

_But there’s no way it’s going to work out with Frazer. You know that._

I do know that. My stomach ties itself into a huge earphone-wire knot. A thought I’ve been desperately trying to avoid creeps back into my head.

_Alan. Did you forget Alan? How could you forget Alan? He’s an obstacle. An obstacle. An obstacle. An obstacle._

_Who was it Amy went out with today, again? Was it you?_

_No. It was Alan._

**_It was Alan._ **

I’m not Amy’s second choice. I won’t be her second choice. Alan. It’s Alan. Maybe it was always Alan. I never had a chance, did I? _“Ah, yes, simply neighbours.”_ Fuck off.

Well, I don’t care. I don’t know what I expected, honestly. A relationship? These feelings can go back to the manufacturer for all I care. Because it’s okay to have feelings for her, but it’s not okay that I might also be harbouring expectations? Is that how it goes?

Besides, I’m nothing more than dirt, anyway. Dirt clinging on to the bottom of your shoe, tagging along for the ride. And they’ll get rid of me eventually. Scrape me off. Return me to my people.

For Amy, a person with good, honest intentions— someone who knows what they want… might be better…

_Better than being with me._

_But… why… does that thought hurt so much?_

_If I like her, then I should be happy no matter what happens._

_But when I picture her with a someone normal… someone better…_

_When I picture her beside someone else…_

My chest tightens up in a way that doesn’t even seem humanely possible. I screw my eyes shut, and it’s like the ground’s being pulled out from underneath my feet. It’s dark. It’s calm. It’s a place my horrible thoughts can’t enter.

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet.

“Aaaaargh! I think my head is overloaded!” I yell out to the dim sky. _Bzzrt, bzzzrt, bzzzzzzzzrt!_ goes my brain. _Error forecasting!_

Oh no! The files are getting corrupted! Errors everywhere. A blinking red sign. And…

… And there’s that faceless person. That faceless, normal person. The person that isn’t Calvin Oliver.

 

Then I open my eyes, and they’re gone.

 

I take a breath. I keep walking.

_One day, I know I’m going to have to give you up._

I can see her window on the top floor, cracked open just a little. I smile without realising it.

I close my eyes, and Amy flings open the window, dipping a waving arm in and out of view. “Yo, be careful!” I say. “Don’t fall!” She leans her whole torso out the window and I’m sweating bullets but she smiles and says, “You’ll catch me if I do?” and I nod, I guess. And I stroll into the house, _our_  house, where I make her dinosaur noodles. Where she calls me ‘love’. Where I’m the one for her.

Where I’m the one who makes her smile.

_I can’t keep considering these fantasies… they can’t exist in a world where you are safe. In a world where you are happy._

_In an ideal world…_

I wave back. 

_But. Not today._

“Hey, love.”

I move to place my hands on the gate. _Breathe in._

My heart stings with the memory of this morning, still, but I focus harder on the gate’s rusting metal arms.

 _Breathe out._ Here we go.

The gate swings open, and there—

Oh. Shit.

Oh shit. Fuck—what the fuck? Oh shit.

There’s… Amy— she’s just… lying on the ground. My head is spinning. She’s just there? On the ground? I’m gonna reel. I think I’m gonna reel.

Panic seizes my body.

She’s not dead, _she’s not dead_ , I know that. I know that. But _is_ she dead? She’s not dead. Why would she be dead? Why would she be on the ground?

Why is she on the ground? But she’s not dead because she wouldn’t have died but she’s still lying here on the grass and did she faint? God, I hope she did.

I mean, I don’t _hope_ she did because that’s a horrible thing to hope for—but that’s not the point and I mean, like, I hope she fainted… instead of died. Which wouldn’t have happened anyway so I don’t know why I’m bringing it up because it didn’t happen, because she’s just… she’s just fainted. It’s all good.

I force myself to take some breaths. They’re not as deep as they could be, but, hey, at least I’m breathing. And the world seems to slow down, even if it’s just a little bit.

I lower myself to the ground and take her limp body into my arms. I start to thread my fingers through her hair and I reassure myself that it’s not weird or creepy because I’ve done it before and, _Jesus Christ_ , Cal, she’s fucking _fainted_ , could you not be worrying about shit like this right now?

No. No, no, no, no, no. It’s still creepy. Especially because I can’t help smiling like an absolute fucking dork. My face burns, and my mouth waters.

God, I’m despicable. But I don’t feel at all guilty.

I don’t really know what to do with someone who’s fainted, so I suppose I’ll just sit and wait. Keep her safe. Her own heartbeat is a soft pounding against my chest. I keep wondering… if she was awake, would she reciprocate the hug?

I rock her back and forth. She’s surprisingly light, y’know? She’s kinda small? Well, not really, but she feels really small in my arms but that’s okay, too, of course! She’s still really cute!

I mean, what? No. She’s not cute. Shut up.

_She’s not yours._

I scowl into oblivion. I really, really don’t know how to feel. On one hand, I could probably shoot off into the sky on pure happiness alone.

On the other hand, it also feels like someone’s lodged a shard into my throat and I can’t get it to go away ever.

It’s only now that I realise I’ve been heavily panting over her face for the past… what, five minutes? Gross. I’m breathing, alright.

I don’t really know how long I can stay like this. She hasn’t woken up yet; she must’ve passed out hard.

I… I guess I’m kinda… glad. In the most guilty, creepy way.

Aaarrgghh. Shivers.

_I wonder what she thinks of me._

What she thinks of _you_ , Cal? A horrible pervert who gets a kick out of brushing Amy’s fucking hair?

Fucking disgusting, that’s what.

I sigh.

Is this love? How can I not even know what love is? Maybe it is.

Maybe it isn’t.

My arms weaken a little. _It’s like I don’t know anything._

Her gentle breaths against my chest give me a moment of quiet. I can hear whispers, the wind, and the fucking duck from earlier.

‘Blah, blah, blah, _not yours_ , blah, blah, blah, _you guys aren’t even dating!_ ’

What a nuisance. Some things need to learn when to shut up.

I just really want to enjoy this while I can.

Please just let me enjoy this while I can.


	16. Words Fail

**AMY**

Taste. Touch. Smell. My senses jumble together as I slowly rise once more to consciousness. It’s kinda like what getting high and smashing your head against a water pipe would feel like.

There’s a scent… something familiar… the taste of salt… and a feeling of warmth? A lot of warmth, actually. I can feel my hair sticking to my scalp from sheer sweat.

More uncomfortable still is the throbbing in my head. I can also hear my heartbeat in my ears, which isn’t helping at all.

Opening my eyes seems… so difficult, though. I just want to keep sleeping…

But my temperature continues to rise and it feels like I might actually be dying.

Finally, the discomfort is powerful enough that I force myself awake, despite the fatigue weighing down my entire body. 

“Mmmmmmmmmmph.” I groan. My mouth feels so horribly dry, like I’ve left it hanging open for hours.

I open my eyes and I’m greeted by probably the main reason my temperature’s soared so high. It’s Cal. Cal. He’s holding me.

He’s holding _me_! Calvin Oliver! _Him_! There’s a lot of internal heterosexual screaming bouncing around my head.

His forehead rests on my shoulder, his arms hold tight to my back, and it’s a bit hard on my chest but totally worth it.

His embrace feels so natural… He’s so close I could practically stroke his hair. If I could move properly, I would. But it’s probably for the best that I can’t. If I tried now, I’d be crushing Cal’s head between my chest and my chin. My C&C. Which: probably not the nicest thing to do.

Plus, I’d also explode and die immediately because he looks really, really, _really_ cute like this. Like… really, really, really, _really_ , _really_ , **_really_** cute. Inexplicably cute. Illegally cute. Disgustingly cute.

It feels… _He_ feels…

Safe. Stupidly, unrealistically safe. Laying here with him seems to still the world, even if it’s just for a little while.

There’s delirious, dizzy laughter building up in my stomach, but the rest of my body is screaming ‘ _I’m going to die of dehydration_ ’. That part eventually wins out.

“Hey…” My voice sounds dry and cracked and disgusting.

His snaps his head up. “Oh! Hey!” The arms around my waist squeeze me closer; I exhale sharply as the combined pressure of his body and his grip pushes the air from my lungs.

My throat is so, so dry.

“Cal… I’m thirsty, please—”

“Amy, are you okay?” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I don’t think he realises that it makes my head spin even worse.

“Water… Cal,” I rasp. It feels like there’s a rusty shovel being dragged across my vocal chords.

“Oh, uh, of course…” Cal trails off as he pats around his jeans. He pockets a deep sigh. I feel my throat get even drier when he rubs his neck.

“Uh… I don’t have any water on me, sorry.” Instead, he pulls out a zip-lock bag. I didn’t even know his puny pockets could hold something like that. “Care for some frozen corn, though?”

I can only shake my head. I’d humour him with a response but I have the distinct feeling that if I did my throat would eat me from the inside.

He laughs, but his eyes don’t light up like they usually do. They look a bit hollow, actually. Tired. Is he worried about something?

“There should be some water inside your house, right?” he asks.

I nod.

“Do you have the key?”

I don’t know. I feel around for a key. I don’t find anything.

Cal reaches for my bag. “I’ll check in here, okay?”

I nod again. It’s kinda pathetic, sitting here doing nothing but watching Cal baby me, but my arms are shaking and there’s no point helping because I’d be a nuisance anyway.

It’s also kinda awkward, so I finger-comb my hair until it looks like I’ve just come back from a club called _I’ll Run My Fingers Through Your Hair Until It Looks Like You Got Lucky_ _♡_. I scratch my head.

“It’s not in your bag,” Cal hums, sounding more and more tired. Then suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh! You usually dump your keys in the flowerpot, right?”

My eyes light up. Yeah! He’s right!

I nod enthusiastically. My fatal thirsting also seems to nod because it scrapes against my throat a little less.

He beams at me, rummaging through the flowerpot(s).

“Holy smokes, this is the deepest flowerpot I’ve ever seen!” he jokes, and I appreciate the effort, even if he does sound a bit like my mum. “How many times do people just wander by and steal your key, huh?”

I can’t laugh, so I just smile up at him. He smiles back.

“Hey!” he says. “Found it!”

I give him a light clap. He responds with a smug-ass grin.

Cal moves to the door. “I’m not too good with keys.” He jams in the key and winces hard. “Give me a moment, ’kay?”

I nod.

I should feel happy he’s helping me. I should feel happy he cares so much, but… The way he talks to me, the way he smiles, everything… it feels more like a bat swung against my head, over and over and over and over again. _You don’t deserve any of this_ , it screams. _Any of him._

It’s guilt, isn’t it? It’s definitely guilt. I feel so so so so so so so so so so guilty.

He’s putting his energy and kindness to waste spending it on me. He should find someone else. Someone who deserves it. He should’ve just let me rot. How long had he been sitting here before I woke up? He shouldn’t have done that. He’s a fucking idiot.

And not being happy makes me feel guilty, too. I’m not happy because I’m a selfish asshole. That’s why I can’t be happy. That’s why I can’t appreciate the small things. That’s why I can’t appreciate Cal right now. When he deserves it.

He deserves so much. So much I can’t give him.

Well, I need to thank him, that’s a taken. If only my throat didn’t feel like it was ripping apart, am I right? Ha _ha_! What inconvenient timing!

Stupid throat. Stupid throat can’t even say two stupid words. I also need to apologise, and repay him, and…

Then out of nowhere there’s a hand on my head. I look up.

It’s Cal. (No shit.)

“You okay?” he asks. “You’ll get your water soon, madam.”

I exhale loudly through my nose, and I realise I sound more exasperated than humoured. I mean, I’m pretty sure both apply, but I also have no right to get fed up when I’m literally being waited at hand and foot. Cal just hums. I don’t know what that means.

The bat doesn’t stir.

The warmth that was probably Cal’s Hands takes its departure, and I hear the door click open. Hell yeah.

“Hell yeah,” Cal whispers.

Hell yeah.

“You okay with standing?” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking because, funnily enough, I _can_ stand. I, Amy Adams, a fifteen-year-old, mastered the art of standing a few years ago. It was great.

Of course I can fucking stand.

I take to moving my legs, and clamber my way onto my feet. I can only hold out my arms and smile a dead, empty smile when a fresh wave of nausea hits me head on.

Pfffffffff _ffffff_ ffffffffff _fffffff_ fftt. I _can_ stand. Doesn’t mean I have to do it _well_.

Trying to steady myself just sends my already dizzy head spinning even further. I can’t believe I’m dying, _again_. When will my body get over itself.

“Looks like you can’t,” Cal snickers. “Good try, though.”

Thanks. His arms snake under my own and I just let it happen, because who needs shame when you might actually be dying.

He and I make a combined effort to hobble into my humble abode. Cal dumps me onto our ragged couch. He rushes off to the kitchen, momentarily stops to check for the Mother (who, in fact, is out for Pilates), then continues on his quest for water.

When he comes back he’s speed-walking on his heels, and I really doubt it’s any beneficial to the, uh, water, but I’ll let him do his thing as long as my throat doesn’t kill me first.

“Here’s your water, m’lady,” he says, and he tips an invisible hat, before placing the cup firmly into my hands. I pour the smallest bit of water into my mouth, and my body responds with a giddy shiver. It’s so cold, and so good, and I drink every drop I can.

Cal just watches me drink. “Wow,” is all he says.  

I _know_ I should slow down, but I keep drinking until the cup is completely empty. (Well, there’s a few stubborn drops sticking to the sides but I’ve tried tilting and I don’t think I’ll be able to score them unless I lick for it. My tongue isn’t that long.) It’s difficult to tell how long I’ve been unconscious, but it feels like years.

“Do you want me to pour another glass?”

I shake my head, and attempt to speak again. The water has done wonders. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

He shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”

Oh, I’m gonna mention it. I’m gonna mention the hell out of it. This Good Deed calls for at least thirty bucks and a can of cold Coke.

He sits down next to me on the couch. “Amy, are you okay?” he asks, seeking out the hand I’ve hidden under my thighs.

I scratch my head. Gears turn in my brain, the electric spark of my heart cranking back on after its sudden power failure. I’ve been running on the emergency generator for the past half an hour or so, dozing between a breathless conscious and my terrifying train of thought picking me up, then knocking me back down. What a useless brain I’ve got.

_Panic attacks? Drama? C’mon, Amy, get your head in the game! This is no time to be slacking off, soldier!!_

“I’m… okay. Yeah,” I say gracefully, doing my best to bow, despite being on a stiff couch. “Just… You’re…” I stare him head-on. “It’s just a misunderstanding, okay?” Stare dropped. “Yeah.”

My body aches all over, even in places I never thought my mental state could touch. Amazing. Anxiety, right? That’s what Mum says it is, anyway. I don’t care. Or, at the very least, I don’t care right now. Have to repair the damage I’ve caused.

Cal groans a sigh of relief, and proceeds to slap his hand against my shoulder back and forth, as “a little payback for making me worry!! <(｀^´)>”. He starts to ramble off about something or rather, but there’s currently too much trash swimming around in my brain for me to converse properly. Cal’s surely gonna press me about this again, and I’m gonna have hell trying to explain any of it.

Haaaha. How dare I let myself be so absolutely… _ugly_ in public. Silly breakdowns are for your bedroom, not the Neighbourhood Watch. Disgusting. Way to let everyone down again, Amy. What a hero you are. Horraayyyyyyyyyyy.

Today’s mess becomes tomorrow’s problem. Better luck next time.

Cal’s chatter eventually ceases, and I’m ready to deal with him. I’m ready to face Cal and Alan and everyone, chin up, spirits up, sunny-side up, light ’em up, put ’em up, partner, show me your hands, high in the sky! Let me see those hands!!

… Maybe I do need some down time. There’s a headache scratching at my brain, demanding entrance.

I look up at Cal, and decide to ask the question that’s been on my mind all afternoon. “Why did you stay?”

He takes a little while to respond, and when he does, he folds his arms and tilts his head in this super cute way I never thought Cal could pull off. “Well… y’know…” He stares off somewhere else. “Sometimes… everyone needs someone to just sit by them, to tell them that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.”

He turns back to me and smiles. I smile back.

I guess Cal’s being that ‘someone’ for me. _Ugh. Give it up_.

I feel a tug at the Dress I forgot I was wearing. “Seriously, though, you were knocked out for a really long time,” he says, slowly. “Are you really okay?”

_Haha, yeah, that’s me. Miss Okay, at your service._

“I’m telling you, Cal, I’m all good!” I give him a wonky wink. “No need to worry at all.”

It feels so awkward having people worry about me, honestly.

He scrunches up his nose, and frowns in this weird, dorky way. His eyebrows furrow up. “… Well,” he eventually says, “if you’re so sure…”

“Yep!”

He laughs. “Okay, okay, then.”

Then, silence befalls us again and I frantically grasp for something to say. Or do. Anything to distract myself from this streaming gash in my chest.

So I just nod, until my brain connects a few dots and I shoot up, bursting with adrenaline, a huge, bright lightbulb knocking me in the head. “Hey! Wanna go play the—” I stop short, and God takes my lightbulb and smashes it into shards because how in the literal, genuine fuck am I supposed to advertise a game about guns and sex and furries? The _title’s_ a no, for starters. “… the…” Fuck. Salvage the situation. “… _Game_?”

Fuck.

Cal grins. “You mean the _dating sim_?” he croons.

“Y…” I laugh into my hands. “Yeah.”

Cal grins even more. “No.”

Did he just… refuse my offer? With a huge-ass grin on his face? Who does he think he is?

I eyeball him. He drops the grin.

Honestly, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to play a game about growing old with your wife. And sex. And I learned how to cheat the game three years ago, so it makes me feel smart.

I say none of this. Instead, I turn to Cal and very intelligently say, “You know that Carry chick? I know a sure-fire way to get in her pants.”

I raise my eyebrows. He raises his eyebrows. We indulge in maybe three seconds of solemn eye contact before Cal breaks, his poker face splitting into straight up cackles. He holds up his hand. “ _Fuck_ , man.”

Our palms meet with a smack, a smirk, and a: “Hell yeah.”

As I move to fetch the cartridge still fast asleep beneath the welcome mat, I see Cal flash me a thumbs-up from the side. (Side note: heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest.) I hurriedly throw him one back and duck out the door.

 

The sun’s start to set. The rays start to stream in over the trees. _Kinda like the day I first ‘rehearsed’, hey?_

Sometimes, I like to sit and watch the sunset. I like to hope that days like these won’t ever have to end. I like to believe there’s a reason everything will turn out alright.

Because if I just _believe_ , then I don’t have to see what’s really there. Then I don’t have to see what’s really… in _here_. Me. Disgusting, horrible me.

So I don’t have to look at it.

No one gets to look at it.


	17. Deadlines, Stress, and a Whole Lot of Heat

**CALVIN**

Even after four years of wear, my uniform still feels stupid stiff on my body. Which then brings up the question, why four years in the exact same uniform? And there’s three main reasons: 1) Dad bought me a Size 17 uniform when I was eleven; 2) I’ve only gained, like, ten kilos over the past four years which is probably unhealthy; and 3) something to do with metabolism, I don’t know, ask Frazer.

Anyway, my uniform isn’t actually my biggest concern. I’ve got a few other ones, like my hair, my old, worn-down runners, and my fat nose, but my biggest concern has to be the Student Nightmare. It’s the homework, and it’s completely understandable because Year 10 is wild—but also because I missed the first week of term, so Mr. Heere and Mr. Simpson and Mrs. Daisy and that other new teacher are probably going to absolutely grill me.

I missed that one week for some extended family camping trip, but I’m still going to say I had something smart and responsible like cram school and Mum’s going to let me do it. I guess there’s an upside, though. I got to avoid Alan for a good week, and Alan got to avoid me, but I’m going to think of this as more of a win for me than for him. We haven’t spoken since that… Day, and I’d like to keep it that way.

_Somehow, this summer holiday felt really short…_

Term 2 holidays felt much longer, but that was probably because Dad sent me back to the farm and every second lasted, like, three hundred years. Maybe suffering is the key to a long holiday.

Summer vacation may have ended in a flash, but the heat still haunts me and my home and my family. When will it leave or start contributing to the household. When will it pay rent.

It’s so hot I can just melt into a puddle of disappointment.

When I trudge towards the clubroom the heat gets the better of me, so I unbutton my collar and I like to imagine it as one of those anime scenes where the hot male lead walks in half-naked and there are sparkles and rose petals falling, but it probably just looks like a skinny fifteen-year-old struggling to find his shirt buttons.

Even with all my buttons unbuttoned, it still feels like my uniform is choking me, clutching tight onto my non-existent abs and secreting pools and pools of sweat in its wake. It sounds poetic but it feels more like a slimy octopus giving you a slimy hug. I fan out my armpits, but it doesn’t make it better because the weak hand-fanning starts to tickle me.

I pass a window and feel a gust of cold, cold air drift in. It feels so good that I find myself moving closer and closer, and my brain is telling me “jump out, be free” but my body says no because we’re on the second floor and I’d probably end up with either a concussion or a sprained ankle. It’s also an unwanted Buy One Get One Free deal: the window and the air it brings is a blessing, but it looks like Alan and his bitch ass is the “Get One Free”.

_Love the sin, hate the sinner._

Beyond the window is Alan crouched in front of a flowerbed, looking all nice and pretty and an overall fucking pain. His dark locks sway in the wind, and I’m trying to tell myself there’s good reason I took note of that, but ultimately it’s just because his hair is fucking hot.

You know, I didn’t really want to draw conclusions or anything like that, but at this point I don’t think it’s even “drawing conclusions” anymore—it’s just common sense. Anyone with an ounce of a brain would get it. Alan has a crush on Amy and it disgusts me.

Sure, you could go off and say, “Oh, they’re just really, really good friends!”, and that’s one thing I hate about, uh, the whole world. I hate touchy-feely relationships between guys and girls. I hate them when I’m in them, of course, but I’m not in them too often so mostly I just hate them from the outside. They’re confusing and complicating; if you’re a guy and you’re touching a girl’s leg, I’m going to assume you’re going out. End of story.

If you actually are “just friends”, don’t dramatically hug them in public and definitely don’t eye them like they’re the last human on earth. Of course, I’m primarily talking about Alan, because literally every conversation I’ve ever had with him has been “Amy, Amy, Amy”, and even when I’m not in the conversation I still hear nothing but “Amy, Amy, Amy”.

This could be a good or a bad thing, but it doesn’t look like Alan’s confessed yet. This is a good thing because he hasn’t given Amy the chance to accept or reject. This is a bad thing because now he’s stuck in my brain almost 24/7, and I know that sounds like I’m in an obsessive relationship with him, but it’s nothing like that at all. I’ve just got to be on Hyper Guard because he’s like an ugly armadillo that can jump out of the bushes at any time and claw out your throat and steal your love interest.

“Wish everything would just work itself out…” I sigh loudly into the window frame, and not out the window because I don’t want anything of me or from me to even be remotely touching Alan.

Like he’s got some kind of witchy Calvin Oliver Sensing System, Alan’s head whips around to my direction and I break into a nervous sweat. I duck away instantly, heart pounding like a rapid machine gun.

_Wait, what are you running for?_

I slowly look back out the window, but Alan’s already nowhere to be seen. He must be on the same avoidance program as me.

_Whatever. Didn’t want to see him anyway._

I head back down the hallway.

 

In the clubroom, I’m faced with Frazer, Evan, and the sickly faded script. I have to squint hard to make out any possible text not already smothered in Evan’s scented sticky notes. They’re pastel pink and smell of strawberries, and they’re from last month’s shopping trip, when Evan freaked out at _Typo_ and got us politely escorted out of the mall. I, personally, don’t really like the sticky notes; they smell so good it’s hard to concentrate.

I keep holding the script in my hand and keep an expression that looks wistful and interested, but I’ve run out of intelligible words so I sneak a few glances at Frazer and Evan instead. They’re acting odd—like, odder than usual. Like, they’re usually fun, playful odd, but now they’re more crazy, erratic odd. For one thing, Frazer keeps whacking his foot against the table’s legs and Evan sways back and forth to the beat of Frazer’s feet, mumbling what sounds like Ancient Egyptian curses under his breath. They’ve both got dead-fish eyes, and underneath are bags so dark Steve Buscemi would be jealous.

Yeah, they don’t look all that into it.

Seems like they’ve made pretty good progress, though. We’ve got a complete script, and the scrambled sticky notes look like blocking marks, which probably means Frazer and Evan have started on the filming.

The bad thing about filming is that Frazer made the rash, stupid decision to base the movie around the “Shiny Blue” beach because he recently got into this weird dolphin fad, and that would’ve been completely fine if we didn’t all live, like, an hour away from any beach at all. I’d protest we film in an easier area like, I don’t know, the _bushland_ , but he’s already written an extensive, romantic scene about the blue-nosed fuckers (“If this is the movie I am to be known for,” Frazer had said, “I want it to have dolphins.”), and there’s no point disagreeing with Frazer anyway, because he’s kinda our boss. The last time we made any kind of rebellion against him, he locked us out of the clubroom for three days.

Like, honestly, Frazer may _seem_ like a real chump to work with, but he’s actually pretty stupid when he wants to be.

Looks like it’s time for Calvin Oliver to step onto the scene! To take the baton! To, uh, actually proofread the script. (There’s this one word, “alalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”, that in context is probably supposed to say “always” but looks more like someone fell asleep on the keyboard.)

I tighten my grip on the pages in hand, and speak up in my best copy of Frazer’s “shit’s getting real” leader voice.

“So basically, we’ve filmed all the scenes we can already, right?” I say. “I’ll check them over for now.”

Frazer squints and scratches his head, like he’s trying to decrypt some alien language. I don’t think he’s even _awake_ yet. After a while he manages the words, “Yeah, thanks,” then sinks into his chair and says no more. Beside him, Evan lifts his head, widens his eyes, then brings down his head again, which is probably supposed to be either a nod or a mating call.

I give them both a Hum of Concern, then open up my memo pad.

“Evan, how are Phoebe’s drawings going?” I ask, lightly shaking his shoulders. He jolts up and mumbles a quick, “Ye- _es_?” the way he does when his mum calls from downstairs. I repeat the question.

“… Uh, well,” Evan rubs his neck, “about that…”

I glance at Frazer, but he shakes his head and gestures over to Evan with his chin. Guess that means Evan was in charge of communication.

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost contact with her…” I smile at him in the amused/disappointed adult way.

Frazer cocks an eyebrow. “Have you gotten the courage to even hold her hand yet?” he deadpans. “I bet you don’t even have her number.”

Evan, like a true underdog, can only pout. “Okay, one, I don’t even _want_ to hold her hand, because Johnny Depp says teenage girls have rabies,” he counters, and it’s a really bad counter, for one.

“Okay, one,” I echo, “that was your mum.”

“Okay, two,” Frazer adds, “you’re fifteen. Please tell me you don’t actually believe that.”

“If rabies was the same as anxiety and a fear of girls, yeah, I definitely believe that,” Evan says, getting quieter and quieter.

Frazer blinks, trying to figure out if that’s sarcasm or not. “Well,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I know.”

Frazer blinks. It was sarcasm.

Evan folds his arms. “And two, I _do_ have her number, actually, because you,” he faces Frazer pointedly, “gave it to me.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” Frazer says in response.

“Y’know, if you’re having trouble talking to girls, just hit me up, dude.”

He turns slowly and just stares at me. “Like you’re the king of romance.”

“I’m not, but I have a book.”

Evan flings his arms into the air, then back down onto the desk. “God, I _know_ how to talk to girls!” he insists, and fools nobody. “I’ve been doing _fine_ on my own! I even visit her once a week to check on progress!” He says that, but his lips are quivering and his smile is dead.

I give him _le quirked eyebrow_. “If it’s going so well, what’re you making that face for?”

He gets flustered all over again. “T-T-T-That’s because! Because… um… well…” Evan pulls at his collar.

I get ready to fire up another question, but Frazer snaps his fingers and I offer him the stage.

“It’s because _Phoebe’s_ the problem, right?” he says. Evan’s face goes from a dark red to a ghostly white, so I’m guessing Frazer hit the nail on the head.

I nod along. _So. Evan didn’t say it because he didn’t want to put the blame on her._

“She’s finished the sketches, and she’s started, uh, colouring, but…” His eyes dart around the room, and he starts rubbing his arm. He bites his lip (in the nervous way, not the sexy way), before continuing: “She said there was still… ‘something’ missing, and hasn’t made any progress since then.”

Frazer nods along with his story, like the whole process is all too familiar to him. I place my bets on procrastination.

“That always seems to happen when you’re making something,” he comments, lightly patting Evan’s back. “And what’s more, suggestions from others don’t help at all.”

I chime in with a: “It’s just something you have to figure out for yourself, hey?”

“Yeah.” Frazer nods, and I smile like a dork. It’s not every day I get validated by Frazer.

Evan smiles, too, but in the bitter way. “I tried asking her what was wrong, but she didn’t really know how to respond…” he says, then shrugs helplessly. “She started getting all philosophical… all ‘ _What even is love, anyway?_ ’.”

“Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.”

“That’s it. We’re kicking Cal out of this club.”

“I don’t know—what can I do? What else can I say? It’s up to you.”

“Whatever.” Evan holds out his hands. “Look, can we get back on track?”

“Yeah.” I scratch my head. “This really isn’t good…”

Frazer immediately lifts his head. “Why’s that?”

I blink at him, and Evan blinks at him, and Frazer blinks at us, and none of us really know what’s going on. I, for one, believe Frazer is either shitting us or has thrown his brain out the fucking window because, yes, he definitely knows why.

“… Sorry, _what_?” asks Evan.

Even with two (2) people staring him down, Frazer doesn’t seem at all fazed. He just shrugs.

“Look, it’s not like Phoebe’s saying ‘What is love?’ in a philosophical way, like one would go about with ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ or anything like that,” he says absently. (I mean, I would’ve gone about it more the _Haddaway_ way.) He doesn’t look at any of us, and instead trains his eyes on some tiny speck or something on the desk. “She actually just doesn’t get it.”

Evan’s chin seems to sink into his neck as he frowns. “Uh… I still don’t really understand. Could you say it again?”

“Evan, you’re overthinking it.” Frazer lightly slaps the back of Evan’s head, but apparently it’s not abuse because friendship or whatever. “Listen, it just means that Phoebe has never had any experience with love. That simple.”

It’s so quiet. Evan shoves his chin back into place. “W-Well… maybe… she could try _me_ for size.”

Frazer laughs. “Smooth.”

“Yeah, you and your dinosaur pj’s?” I laugh. “Fat chance.”

Evan scowls and still manages to make it look pure and innocent. Frazer laughs again.

“Like you’re one to talk when you can’t even face your crush.” I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve heard him use the word ‘crush’. He’s the last person I wanted to hear that from.

My inner fuckboy says I should pick a fight, face him like a real man, but—let’s be honest, here—I’d probably lose, because Frazer ran a debating club for three years and knows words up to forty-five letters, and the longest word I know is “antidisestablishmentarianism”, which I don’t think I can really use in a debate about love. And—oh, you meant street fight? Well, no can do; I quit Taekwondo three years ago and I’ve seen Frazer deck someone so hard they bled for an hour.

“Hey, Cal?”

I’m not sure how long I’ve been spacing out, but Evan’s tiny little squeak flings me back into the mortal plane. Our eyes meet, his face looking like worry with a chance of relief.

“Yeah, I don’t really know what’s going on,” he says, “but aren’t you hungry? I’m absolutely _starving_.”

Frazer doesn’t say anything at first, but then nods and starts gathering his things to leave. “It feels like a hole’s open up in my stomach,” he says, places a hand to his cheek, and it sounds all lament-y and dramatic and sad anime girl-esque. “I haven’t eaten anything since, what, last night?”

Evan laughs dryly. “Yeah, and you slept through lunch, too!”

Then Frazer’s eyes are on me, and the corners of his lips lift into what looks like… a grin. “Let’s go get McDonald’s!”

Woah, woah, woah. Exclamation mark. Exclamation mark alert— _Frazer_ exclamation mark alert!

That’s something I haven’t heard in a while. I kinda like it.

“Uh… hey, Cal? You’ve been so gone for the past, like, five minutes,” Evan says. “Macca’s?”

“Yeah…” I nod slowly. “We can go to that new one behind the station.” I rise from my seat.

“Whaaaat, a new one?” Evan laughs. “What are you, Weight Watchers?”

I sling an arm around his shoulders.

“Yeah, fair enough.”


	18. Later Homo

**CALVIN**

I’m sitting here at the brand new restaurant and it’s supposed to be the highlight of my day, chillin’ with my buddies at the best place to be, but it’s not. I’m supposed to be enjoying my meal, savouring each golden nugget as it kisses my tongue, but I’m not. Everything’s gone to shit.

And there’s one simple reason for it all. Only the brave dost speak of him. Even the shadows whisper his name in fear.

_Alan._

( _Echo, echo, echo_.)

And he’s ruined my entire day.

Like, I don’t even know why he’s here. He’s like some kind of hot brain tumour that just won’t fuck off.

And Evan? Evan was the carrier. He spread the disease.

See, we were just walking, we were just talking, we were just being all nice and peaceful and then out of nowhere Evan emits this strange kind of enraged/excited pig scream. I look off into the distance, and who do I see but the sinful face of Alan himself.

So you see, that’s where the trouble began. That face. That damn face.

 

Like, two seconds later, Evan was off flapping his arms about like an overactive DJ, practically galloping up to Alan. He held his hand out for a high five and Alan hesitantly took him up on it. Evan took Alan by the arm and hurled him back to over to _us_ : Frazer, who was probably disassociating, I don’t know; and _me_ , who wasn’t even responsive because I was too busy trying to figure out what the actual fuck just happened. When the fuck did they get so close? I take my eye off Evan for one damn second and he starts cheating on me with my sworn enemy.

“Hey, Al!” Evan said.

“Don’t call me Al,” Alan said.

“Don’t call him Al,” I said.

Alan gave me this weird side-eye thing. I don’t know what it was, I just know he was staring at me like I was some shit stuck on the footpath. Then he waved Evan off, and I don’t know if he was staring at Evan the way he was staring at me because I wasn’t looking.

“Just Alan’s fine,” said Alan.

“Okay then, Just Alan!”

Alan’s next movements were very slow. He blinked slowly, and he exhaled slowly, and he frowned slowly. He looked down at his hands, and then up at Evan and blinked again, but faster this time. Then he smiled this super fake, stiff smile.

“Haha,” he said, with absolutely no spirit whatsoever. _I_ personally think Evan’s joke was a real cracker, but of course _Alan_ wouldn’t be able to appreciate that sweet, subtle humour.

Evan had chuckled in his own cute, embarrassed way, flushed like a hot summer’s day. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Alan had said. “It was funny. Really.”

Evan chuckled again, but in a less embarrassed way. He seemed to blush even harder, though, smiling and laughing awkwardly, like, every few seconds. “Haha, thanks.” He gestured at Frazer with a trembling finger. “Hey, you’ve met Frazer, right? Haha.”

“Uh… yeah.”

Giggles burst out of Evan like water out of a fountain. “Oh, great!!” Then he seemed to catch how absolutely stupid he sounded, and did a double-take.

“I mean, uh…” He had rubbed his neck and I could tell he was trying to do the Synchronised Wink n’ Snap move but 1) didn’t time it right, and 2) got the order wrong, “… _coool_. Haha.”

Alan wasn’t even, like, slightly amused. Now he was looking at Evan like he was some dying squirrel. “Yeah,” he said. “ _Coool_.” I couldn’t tell if he was being awkward or just a Jerk, so I wrote him off as Jerk because, yeah, that suits him.

Evan stopped the Winkin’ n’ Snappin’, and stuck with the awkward neck rubbing instead. “So, _Alan_ …” he said, with a lilt on ‘Alan’.

“ _Yeah_ …” Alan said, with a lilt on ‘Yeah’.

“How’d you like to join us for some, uh… _Macca’s_?” Evan said, with the same lilt on ‘Macca’s’. If he was _trying_ to be casual, he was failing miserably.

“Macca’s? Sure, I’d love to!” Alan’s eyes sparkled with new interest, and I knew it. He was looking for a way in. To terrorise me again. He’s a cockroach, an informant, he really is. Evan was just easy bait.

Evan’s face sparkled with I don’t really know what, but it was sparkling, alright. I think my face looked more like a squashed pancake. Frazer had patted me on the back with his two cents: “Well, isn’t this a great opportunity? You two have a good man-to-man talk together.” And I didn’t reply, because was there any point? How much did he already know? Is Frazer even still human?

In fear of Frazer’s all-knowing eyes, I just shoved my jaw into some sort of scowl and held my tongue. So they didn’t even ask for my opinion, and now Alan’s stuck with us, and I’ve been suffering since.

 

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed, it’s that Evan and Alan get along really well. Even their names sound like a reality TV show. _Evan & Alan_. Or a furniture store.

They’ve both got a lot of similarities, too. They both speak in this soft, shy kind of voice, and it takes them both about three years to get comfortable anywhere. They’ve also got soft eyes. Soft voice, soft eyes… definitely not my type. (Not that Alan would ever be my type ever.)

The E&A tend to get embarrassed and excited easily, and I sound like National Geographic.

The current Hot Topic is Alan’s Hot New Transformation, because apparently he used to look like a slag (and I wish he _still_ looked like a slag so Evan would stop literally drooling on me). 

“Wow!” Evan does these weird, frantic seal claps. “The salon down the road?”

Alan smiles. “Down _down_ the road. It’s quite far away from here, actually,” he says. “I thought I’d start by changing how I looked, first. To… get myself in the mood, you get me?”

Evan’s eyes light up, and he grins. “Yeah, yeah, of course!” He props his hands up on the table and leans his cheek into one palm. “But isn’t that salon super expensive?”

“Yeah, but I saw them do brilliant work,” Alan says. “So I saved up.”

“Really? That much?” I can’t tell if Evan looks more amazed or petrified. “And, like… all you?”

“Uh…” Alan laughs. A small, insincere ‘haha’. “Yeah.”

“That’s a _ma_ zing.” Okay, so he was more amazed. “Going to the right place really counts, doesn’t it? You look _so good_ with that style.”

I frown. This is starting to sound more and more like the cheesy small talk Mum makes with the grocer when we check out. I lean back into my stool. Frazer hasn’t made any contributions to the conversation and he’s just staring ahead, so I’ll assume he’s disassociating again.

Alan flushes bright red and starts to twiddle with his thumbs, pulling away from the table. He probably chuckles, I don’t know—it sure doesn’t _sound_ like it.

“I’m still the same on the inside, though, so change can only go so far…” He does another one of those heavy chuckles, and tugs at his collar.

Evan slowly reaches out and places a hesitant hand on Alan’s shoulder. “You should be more confident in yourself!” he says. “It’s amazing that you could just transform yourself like this, y’know? I know it’d be super hard for me to just… _bam_ , invent a new look for myself.” Evan smiles a small, pure smile.

Alan seems exceedingly surprised at first, but eases into a smile. It’s not as pure as Evan’s, though, of course.

_Hearing Alan talk about it like this, it doesn’t really seem like he changed himself just to show off…_

While I can’t deny he still looks like a bitch, and still is a bitch in my books, I’ll have to admit I can’t sense any of that brazen, assholery from the park. But it’s really weird… it’s like, whenever he’s not being a jerk, he just loses all his confidence. He doesn’t even look people in the eye anymore.

Really fuckin’ strange.

Ev&Al engage in more banter, and I decide to zone out. A lot of things are on my mind, but I’d say predominantly are probably Alan and his words. I just can’t figure him out, y’know? One second he’s a shy, respectable dude, the next he’s a cockshit, and then he just goes back to being the same awkward guy! Are they even the same person? Does he have some kind of personality disorder?

Can… change really go this far?

I lean further back into my stool, but not so far as to fall off because no matter how good this place is, their chairs don’t have backrests. I rub my face over and sigh.

_“Want to change”, huh…?_

And then there’s a deafening silence. Which sounds redundant, but, y’know, it’s the kind of silence that weighs so hard on your ears they start to ring? Is that a thing?

If it is, that’s what I’d classify this silence.

And everyone on the fucking table is staring at me.

“W-What is it? What’s wrong?” I spit among the nerves and the stares.

Evan just looks puzzled. “Well, uh… I mean…” He looks off at Frazer and Alan beside him. They shrug. He shrugs. “Didn’t you hear what you just said?”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “What, did I declare war on America?”

Evan frowns. “Uh… you said something like, ‘I want to change,’ didn’t you?”  

I glance over at Frazer and he nods. “Yeah, you sure did.”

_Shit._

Yeah, I don’t recall doing any of that, so I must’ve been zoning hard. I regret a lot of things; this is definitely one of them.

And this is where the canned audience would laugh their throats out and the lights would dim and it’d cue some kind of inner monologue with me, where I’d say: “ _Kyaa! I’ve been found out!_ ” (Director’s note: hand on heart.) “ _My thoughts… leaked. I can’t believe this!_ ”

I can’t think of a good way to joke it off, so I just stick my nose up and look away from the group and cling on to any remaining dignity I have.

“… So, even you can feel that way, Calvin?”

The _One Who Breaks The Silence_ is none other than Alan, who I thought would literally rather die than do that ever. He sounds… so startled. I didn’t even say anything that wild.

I still don’t look at him. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean it in a bad way…” He shakes his head. “How I see it, you’re _very_ lucky to have what you do now.”

Oh, yeah—that’s some sweet passive-aggression. Suave. Real suave. _So he does seem like a self-conscious person, after all…_

This is just solid proof that Amy is wrong and I am right, and the incident at the park was, in fact, not a misunderstanding at all. I’m getting better and better at this detective game.

_Do I ignore this? Or accept the challenge?_

I take one nugget and lower it into his, uh, cardboard-meal-box-thing, and don’t make eye contact because why would I.

“Thanks.” I stick out my hand and expect a nice, light slap back, but it never comes. Instead, Alan’s looking at my hand like it’s some kind of infected mole.

“Uh…” He’s been ‘uh’ing a lot today. Maybe that’s just how he is when he’s not being an Asshole. He still doesn’t take me up on the slap, though. “You’re welcome?”

I stare at him like he’s five and I can only wonder, _how come he’s surprised by simple male behaviour? Normal comradery? Has he never had a friend before?_

That’s kinda pathetic.

Evan grabs onto my shoulders. “Hey, injustice! Give me a nugget!”

And Frazer grabs onto his shoulders, and pulls the parasite off my back. “Don’t worry, it’s not hard to win over Cal with flattery.” He ruffles Evan’s hair.

 _Well. He’s not_ wrong.

Evan cocks an eyebrow. He inches closer to me, puts a finger to his lips, and winks, and the wink makes me think it’s probably supposed to be enticing and/or sexy but I’ve never been drier.

He rubs his arm against mine. A cold chill runs up my spine. “Hey, Cal…”

“No, stop.” I try to keep him at arm’s length. Frazer’s grinning like a horny twelve-year-old. Alan watches idly from the sidelines.

Evan pokes my cheek. “Have I ever told you how sexy you look?”

I smile, but it’s, like, an exasperated, eunuch smile. “Evan, that’s gay.”

“I know.”

“Does Calvin Oliver is gay?” Frazer laughs, slapping his hands against his face. Dick.

I slap my own hands against my face and muffle the words, “I’m not gay.”

Frazer slumps back into himself. “Oohh… Shot _down_ ,” he fake-whispers to Evan (fake-whispering is when you lean over to someone else like you’re telling them a deadly secret but say it loud enough for everyone across the globe to hear).

Evan fake-hurts (self-explanatory). “Can’t you appreciate me? Men?”

I sink deeper into my hands. “Of _course_ I can,” I say, still muffled, of course, “I _love_ men.”

A fresh snort rips out of Frazer’s throat. It sounds physically painful, and I look over, but he’s grinning, not hurt. I realise my mistake.

“And women! I love women!”

Frazer stops grinning. “Yeah, okay. What a bi.”

‘ _WHaT a bI_ ,’ he says. That’s not a thing.

“I can appreciate both men _and_ women,” I say, and I sound like one of those cheesy equality campaigns. I just need a catchy jingle and the American flag.

“Okay.” Evan dips his head, then raises it again. “Then how about you give lil’ Evan here a lil’ sugar?”

“Ev _an_ , shut _up_.”

“Okay, yeah, sorry.”

I see Alan fold his arms. _Oh. He’s still here_. I don’t know if he’s a chump for staying around so long, or a jerk for staying around so long.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “You really are lucky to have them, Calvin.”

Who does he think he is? God? My mother? Why is he trying to make me feel guilty? Yeah, sure, I appreciate them, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it every living second of my life. Really sounds like this dude’s never had friends before.

I’m not sure how to respond, so I just say exactly what comes to mind. “Most of the time, they’re just really annoying.”

In the background I hear Frazer go, “Oh, so _that’s_ what you think of us? _That’s_ what we are to you? Oh, yeah, we’ll never be as good as the _living legend_ Calvin Oliver himself,” and I choose to ignore the rest of it.

“Even so, I envy you,” Alan says.

I lean a little further back in my stool, a little further away from Alan, and narrow my eyes. Does he really mean that?

God, he’s being _such_ a different person today, it’s crazy. It’s like every few seconds I discover another layer of this… _Alan_ thing.

He also keeps pulling this, like, BuzzFeed shit. Making me check my privilege and whatnot. What’s he even doing? What’s he trying to accomplish? I might need to govern a higher detective skill to crack this one open.

I feel like he’s definitely trying to start something, though. This is, like, a God Tier guilt trip.

Like he’s baiting for a response…

“Here’s my chance!”

I hear someone’s hectic battle cry. I see my life flash before my eyes. I don’t notice the gremlin on my tail until he stabs me in the back. I… I’ve never felt a betrayal so _strong_. So… so vile. So bitter. So destroying.

My eyes are blurry with tears as the figure of Evan Iston takes away my only hope… my only happiness. My last chicken nugget. My son. My world. My precious—

“I’ll be taking this, thanks!” comes his disembodied voice.

“Dude!” I cling onto Evan’s arm. “That was the best one!” It looked like a dinosaur! His name was James!

He laughs. A vicious, villainous laugh. It’s just as they say: you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

“Well, I’m sorry, man,” Evan says, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he barely sounds like anything, because his words are stifled and his mouth is stuffed with what could’ve been mine.

“You are the definition of dread,” I hiss. “Love is dead and never existed.”

Evan places his hand on my shoulder and looks me right in the cockeye. His gentle brown orbs dig deep into my soul. I will myself not to lose my way. This is a quest of vengeance.

“How about I get you another meal?” he says with the softest smile. “All on me.”

“But you haven’t got any money.”

“Shh…” he shushes, trailing a finger down my cheek. It feels gay. “That’s not important right now.”

 _Yes, it is._ I know it is, but it’s so easy to just… believe, because Evan’s voice is so soft that it sounds like one of those meditation tapes Mrs. Daisy has stashed under the desk.

“So, how about it?” he repeats.

I sniff, and nod slowly. You know. For the effect.

“That would be nice.” Booyah. Free food.

Evan smiles again, then awkwardly leans over to Frazer like I suddenly can’t see him. “Hey, Frazer… lend me a few,” he whispers, and I don’t think it’s supposed to be fake-whispering but it’s loud enough to be.

Frazer covers his nose. “Uggh… You’re both so dramatic,” he whines.

Alan suddenly bursts out laughing. “Here, Evan,” he says, pulling out a pretty pink purse. “You can take my ten.”

Evan looks like he’s been set on fire. “No, no, no, no! This doesn’t involve you!” he explodes. “Please keep your money!”

“It doesn’t involve me, either!” Frazer throws his arms across the table. He sighs. “You’re so noisy.”

Alan retracts the tenner and slots it back into his purse. I bet that “generous act” was just for show. If Evan accepted, he’d probably be something like, “Oh, yeah? Think I would really lend _Calvin_ any money? He doesn’t deserve it!” and then laugh like a posh British lady.

I cross my arms. _Whatever. Didn’t want his money anyway_.

But my stomach grumbles a bit so maybe I did.

Evan points at my stomach and goes, “Look! Look at our poor friend! He’s starving!” and Frazer goes, “You were the one who stole his food,” and then Evan goes, “I only took one piece. I’m paying another meal out of generosity,” even though he’s not really, because he doesn’t have any money, and that’s when I let my stomach tune out their little back-and-forth and stop listening.

Beside me, Alan lightly pulls at my shirt.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What would you like?”

“What?”

“Oh. Sorry. On the menu. What would you like?”

I don’t respond. I get the creeping suspicion that he’s trying to pay for me, but then again, no, he wouldn’t do that.

He persists. “What you had before?”

“Uh… sure?” I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.

Then Alan orders up a medium nugget combo, and I sit and still refuse to believe. I’m not going to fall for his traps. He’s going to order, waft it over me, and then take it all for his own, which is what I think, but the tray arrives and he doesn’t do any of that. I’ve never been more confused.

He carefully pushes it over to me, fingers dancing over the rim. Looks hot. (The food! Not him.)

“Here.” Alan smiles. It’s still small and awkward.

I look at the tray, then back at him. Tray. Alan. Tray. Alan.

Tray.

I grind my teeth.

“Why?”

Alan’s hands retreat to his lap. He shrugs, but doesn’t give an answer.

_… I still don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is._

I blow on the fries for a bit, which seems to catch the attention of the bickering duo. Apparently I blow louder than Alan orders meals.

“Woah!!” Evan’s mouth forms a perfect ‘O’. “What’s this?”  

I glance at Alan, but he just smiles and shakes his head, and I don’t know how to interpret that. So, “Alan,” is all I end up saying.

Evan seems to take the hint. “No!” he says. “No _way_! He shouldn’t have!” Oh, that’s _such_ a Mum Thing. He folds his arms. “Take it back! Take it back!”

“Let it go.” Frazer holds out his thin, skinny arm and it somehow stops Evan. “He already paid for it.”

“Pffft. Well, that was stupid.” Evan turns to me. “Did you thank him, Cal?”

“What are you, my mum?”

“Did you _thank_ him, _Cal_?”

“Oh my god.” I look away. “… No.”

“Thank him.”

“Oh my god.”

“Thank him, _Cal_.”

I frown at him. He frowns back. This is fucking absurd. (It’s just _something_ about the way he says my name that’s so… hypnotising? Psychic? I don’t know.)

“Fine,” I say, choosing to be the ‘responsible adult’ or whatever. “Thanks, Alan.”

“Ah…” Alan looks shocked, again. Didn’t he hear everything that just happened? “Umm… yes… of course. Thanks. I mean, you’re welcome. For.” He clears his throat and starts again. “Y…ou’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes. _Okay_.

Almost as soon as Alan’s attention is off me, Evan _cha-cha real smooth_ ’s over to him, and they strike up another awkward conversation. Frazer chuckles quietly, then retreats back into his own little circle.

I realise I’ve been acting pissy all day, but I think I know damn well the reason for that. It’s just… I don’t _understand_. I don’t understand why Alan keeps insisting on barging in on my personal life like this. He keeps finding me and targeting my comfort zones. He won’t leave me alone.

This Macca’s trip? This was supposed to be a fun hangout with Frazer and Evan—uh, who are my _friends_. Not Frazer and Evan and Alan. I didn’t invite Alan. This makes me sound like a bitchy white girl, but I don’t want to be around Alan at all because he sucks. There’s no elaborate way to put it—he just _sucks_.

Also! It’s like Alan’s got Evan on a leash. I can see them over there; Evan nods enthusiastically to everything he has to say. So, first he takes Amy and then he’ll add Evan to his harem? Is that how it’s gonna be?

 _Fuck_ , man.

I look up at the ceiling. Alan does have a point, though, in a way. I guess I am lucky to have friends. Good friends, too. That seems to be a thing Alan lacks.

I want to enjoy this moment while it lasts. And maybe it’ll all be alright in the end.

Just maybe.


	19. Alan’s Declaration

**CALVIN**

We end up sticking around at the restaurant for, like, another hour or so, I don’t know.

That sounds like a whole lot of time to finish a few nuggets (and, like, seven fries), but it actually wasn’t all me. Evan and Alan got into some really heated “friendly” debate about wildlife or politics or some other bore, and it probably would’ve raged on to the end of time if Frazer didn’t join the war. It ended pretty soon after that because Frazer, like, threw up a dictionary and silenced both sides. Because he’s a nerd. (I wasn’t in any way or shape involved in the debate, but I did feel kinda proud because Frazer used ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’, and it was the only word I actually understood.)

The debate amused about two whole people. Everyone else left. And after a few salty post-debate handshakes, it’s also time for us to leave. I bid the stout, chubby owner farewell, and we step out onto the streets, where the heat clings tight and my pits grow damp.

We head down the road: Frazer and Evan engage in some banter, Alan hums quietly to himself, and I try to fan out my sweating pits in a way that isn’t overly obnoxious. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alan scoot closer to me. He tugs on my shirt again, because apparently he doesn’t know of any _conventional_ ways to grab someone’s attention (like, I don’t know, maybe clearing his throat… or, honestly, just saying “umm, Calvin?” in his small awkward voice would probably be better than his grimy fingers on my shirt).

“Calvin, could I have a bit more of your time?” he says, without a stutter or a lisp—in clean, crisp English. Shocking. Wonder how many times he practiced that in his head.

Honestly, I don’t want to be around him for any longer than I have to. So, ideally, _no_ , no he can’t have ‘a bit more of my time’. But I don’t get the chance to formulate a semi-friendly turn down because Evan jumps in before me.

“Count me in, too!” he shouts, waving around his arm like a pig on a stick.

It’s a good save. Although I don’t think Evan was really thinking of me at all when he said that.

Alan starts to fiddle with his fingers. He knits his eyebrows. Oh boy.

It’s kinda amazing, actually—it’s almost like every single interaction he has is a room full of explosives. Ask him a question: he’ll take about seventy-three billion years to respond, just sitting there looking like he’s solving a world-class mystery.

I’m pretty sure Evan went through something like this back in primary school. He had the typical shy symptoms: he spoke quietly, fiddled a lot, etc., but then there was also, like, the extra extra topping on the cake. He ate in the bathroom at lunch because there were too many people outside; he would make himself throw up to get out of school because he was just so terrified of everyone.

Later, his mum informed me it was actually a little something called ‘social anxiety’, and he had to go to therapy and take pills, and after that Evan avoided me for a month because apparently he thought I’d see him as some kind of weirdo. Which was funny, because back then pills were super badass to me, so he really had nothing to worry about.

_Maybe that’s why he gets along so well with Alan. Because they have similar experiences._

Anyway, Evan also seems to sense the awkward in the air, and lowers his arm.

“Oh, if you don’t want me to come, you can just say so!” he says, and you can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I won’t mind! Really!” I don’t know how he manages to make all his words sound so pure and kind. It must be some sort of natural gift.

Alan dips his head. “Ah, yeah…” He starts to tug at his left ring finger. _Ookay_. “I’m sorry, but I’d like it to be just the two of us, if possible…”

_NO._

_ALAN._

_WHY THIS._

His words are like an anvil to the head!

Ring finger… the two of us alone… Wow, I can’t believe my sworn enemy is going to propose to me.

Frazer looks to have the same thought process. He gives a toothy grin.

“Well, if you put it like that, there’s no way you can turn him down,” he laughs. “Somebody’s getting lucky.”

He doesn’t leave me any room to speak, either, because before I know it he’s already strolling down the road with Evan under tight hold, laughing that condescending laugh of his. Another anvil.

They’ve both left me out to dry. Now it’s just me and him and, y’know, I have the tiniest feeling he’s going to eat me. Verbally. At this point, I can’t help but feel like I have some kind of obligation to sit through his bullshit.

Maybe this is like the boring story event every game has to include. Maybe once I beat the final boss I’ll be granted a better life.

I look up at the sky for an answer, like Frazer always does when he starts brooding. I get nothing but heat. The sun already set a while ago, the moon emits a soft glow, but the atmosphere is still nothing but humid and uncomfortable.

Alan emits a soft sigh. “Do you mind if we go somewhere else?” It’s not a question, because he walks off anyway.

I’m about to ask him just how far we’re even going when he stops in the middle of a nearby parking lot. Lame boss battle this is gonna be. What, is he gonna, like, fender bend me over a car?

Dramatic tension? Nah. We’re in the Tricounty Mall parking lot.

Alan leads me to some corner, behind one of those fancy designer two-seater cars that are actually really inconvenient, but make you look cool and rich until you’ve got to cram in the whole family. I didn’t realise anyone around this place even owned one of those.

I shove my hands into my pockets and glance around in an urgent/laidback way—a ‘I’ve got other things to do so be quick’ way. Alan hasn’t spoken yet, and I _do_ have other things to do (don’t know what they are yet), so I decide the conversation has to start with me or we’ll go nowhere.

“So, what did you want to talk—”

“Calvin, do you hate me?”

And apparently I didn’t need to take on the burden at all because Alan interrupts me almost as soon as I start.

I clear my throat. “Uh, what?”

I don’t get an answer; he just repeats the question.

“Do you hate me?”

In an ideal world, I’d go, “Yeah, definitely,” and we’d both move on with our lives, but I don’t think I’m just allowed to say that. Because social norms or whatever. (Plus, something about Alan tells me it isn’t the best idea to tell the shy, anxious kid I hate him.)

So, instead of telling him directly, maybe I’ll give him some clues, and he can come to his own conclusion, and if he figures it out and he’s offended, I can go, “Woah, dude, I never said anything, that was all you,” and I won’t get in any trouble. Solid plan.

“Wait, just hold on a minute… Alan, what are we?” I lay down my first bread crumb.

“What?”

“What is our relationship?” I ask again. “Because we’re definitely not friends.”

Alan hums. “I know,” he says, then pauses. “I’d say… we’re rivals.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. Kinda expected that.

Then he faces me head-on. “Do you feel like competing?” he says, and again, it doesn’t sound like a question at all. It’s more like a command. I still don’t respond. “I’m prepared, even if it drags on for a long time.” And the cocky, Jerk Voice is back. I grind my teeth.

So, he knows I’ve been purposely avoiding him – I don’t blame him, doesn’t take a Sherlock to work that out – and I guess I had this confrontation coming. What a waste of time.

Alan’s a bitch, but he’s tenacious and persistent. If I don’t go along with his, uh, Competition, I’ll just get called out another day. And if I turn it down again I’ll get called out _another_ day. He’s going to whittle me down until I submit. _Persistent_. Like spam email. I _wish_ Alan was a rich Albanian prince.

I don’t think I have many options here. And to be completely honest, I also think I’m already on the playing field, whether I like it or not. Escape _sounds_ easy – all I’ve got to do is magically ( _poof!_ ) erase my feelings for Amy – but, trust me, nothing works.

I’ve tried poetry, YouTube brainwashing, avoidance—y’know, things like that. Scuffing the streets doesn’t actually do the job, either. Ladies around my area aren’t the hottest, and the dudes are subpar. Amy’s, uh… special? Sure. It’s a good cliché for now.

I let loose a deep, maybe a bit confused sigh. I realise Alan’s been staring at me this whole time.

_Ah, yes. Maybe. He wants. An answer._

I’ve got nothing particularly smart or brave on my mind, so I say something like, “You haven’t confessed yet, right?” and I pray to God it doesn’t sound too pathetic.

“I haven’t.” He simply smiles. It’s a bit off-putting, to say the least.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Yes.” His reply is just as blunt as before. I’ll take it. I’ll accept the challenge.

“Alright, let’s just, uh, say I, uh… _do_ like Amy… uh, romantically… Let me ask you something,” I say, and my words don’t come out smooth and casual the way I want them to; they come out like chunks of crushed ice from a broken dispenser. Alan still nods along. “Back when we met at the park, if I’d just confessed to her right then and there, what would you have done?”

His smile fades immediately. I feel a bit like I’ve strolled into a bear trap.

Then it returns, wider, and funnily enough I still feel like I’m dead meat.

“I would have challenged you to a contest, fair and square,” he says, and, well, I guess that was kinda expected, too.

“What are you up to?” I ask him, whacking a foot against the pavement. “Increasing your number of rivals and lowering your chances of success, just what are you planning?”

I can’t tell if he’s cunning, or just stupid. That’s usually the case. And usually it’s actually ‘cunning’, but in the moment you really can’t help but hope it’s ‘just stupid’.

“I’ve already told you. I just want a fair contest.” That’s it. That’s all he gives me. And he’s stopped smiling. It’s weird—it’s like _The Degree of Alan’s Smile_ is its own Richter scale. He’s a specimen, alright.

He’s looking at me with fierce eyes and his whole face is scrunched up, which must be his angry face, but, looking at him, I don’t think he has anything but words. And he kinda wields them like a blind soldier in the rain.

Alan gives me a few more of those words he’s so good at: “This is my declaration of war. Just like how I’m standing before you now.”

Are they supposed to be so abstract and weird? Maybe he actually _is_ ‘just stupid’.

Alan’s words… they’re a bit like late-night drinking. When you first take a few shots, you don’t feel shit. Then you get confused because, you’ve paid for all this vodka, where is the payoff? Where is the high? Where is the pain? Then, feeling like some kind of immortal drinking god, you take a few more shots.

And then, everything hits you at once. The vodka sneaks up behind you and whacks you repeatedly with a bat full of regret. You feel yourself grovelling at the gates of hell. You spend all night thinking about this skinny raven-haired man and how he’s probably going to steal your chubby raven-haired crush with his weird raven-haired words.

I massage the bridge of my large-ass nose and let out a groan that sounds like gorillas mating.

“Why does it have to be me…?” I say to no one in particular, and wonder if Alan even heard it at all. It was pretty much a whisper, but he’s been giving me hawk-eye for the past, I don’t know, forever.

_I’m not the pint of Amy’s interest, anyway…_

If I just tell him the truth, I probably won’t be forced to stand in the ring any longer. I mean, like, what’s the point of picking on a defenceless man? A man with no power?

The words linger on the queue, ready to be said.

But I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s almost like I don’t want to admit it myself. I don’t want to believe the fight’s over yet. I don’t want to believe I’ve been…

Rejection. I hate rejection. Like, sometimes I wonder why I fear it so much, but then when I meet it head on, I decide that it’s good for me to fear it, because I hate it. I hate it with my soul. It’s just the way the world works for me.

I push away those thoughts and push away my bangs. It looks cool and dramatic. I look straight at Alan.

“Tell me,” I say, “do you honestly like Amy?”

I’m not accepting defeat… I’m, uh, forming a backup plan. To make sure Amy’s happy—even if it’s not with me, at the end of the road. Because maybe… she didn’t choose me because I can’t make her happy.

Who can? Maybe it’s Alan.

But I have to make sure he’s good enough. There’s hardly any point of falling in love if you’re not willing to do anything for the other person. Even if it’s giving them up. At the end of the road.

Alan takes a breath in, then out. He tugs at his ring finger.

“Can I… take a second to say a couple of things?” He sounds all weak and tiny again. “If you don’t want me to, then I won’t…”

I feel like this might lead to an answer, in his weird, cryptic way, so I nod.

“Have you ever thought,” he says, “about a life where no one knows about your existence?”

“What?”

“A life where nothing you said,” his voice breaks, and he gives a small shrug, “mattered to anyone.”

I don’t… know—

I don’t feel like it’s my place to say anything.

So I don’t.

Alan laughs. “A life where _you_ didn’t matter to anyone,” he continues. “I never thought I’d amount to anything more than that.” Then he smiles, not at me, for sure, but something else. Something else he sees? Something else he’s thought of? I don’t know.

“But I was wrong,” he says. “And I’m so glad.”

To be completely honest, I’m not sure I even understand. But something tells me that Alan doesn’t need to be understood. He just wants to talk.

Because maybe he doesn’t get to do that very often.

_Hmm._

I decide to speak up.

“… What’s your point?”

Alan doesn’t respond immediately, and instead just closes his eyes and savours whatever else he’s seeing.

“She found me,” he says after a while. “I finally felt like I, uh… _mattered_ to someone. Like… Like I could finally make a sound.” He opens his eyes, and his whole face is radiating some kind of light. “Because no one deserves to be forgotten.”

_So, that’s how it is?_

Amy’s the big reason. The instigator. Why he went from Hideous to Handsome. He didn’t just want to change.

He wanted to change for her.

And he did.

… Cheesy. Maybe that’s what it takes.

_But if that’s the case, what about me?_

Alan, who has a good reason why he likes Amy— Alan, who _knows_ why… Alan, who, uh, loves her.

And then, me. Me, who can’t even face the truth.

_(And that faceless person… who can make her happy… Is it Alan?)_

If I don’t have a reason, can I even consider myself a rival of Alan’s? All this time, I’ve been acting like I’m on the higher ground. I’ve been acting like I’m better than him. I’ve been acting like he’s the problem…

When it’s me.

I’m the problem.

He should find someone who actually has it together. Declare war with them. Or whatever.

_I… don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her._

_I don’t—_

I’m already privileged enough. I already have enough. I shouldn’t even want Amy. I shouldn’t even try.

I should give up. I should give up now—and I know it. I know it well.

I know it, but…

There’s this truth that speaks louder. Louder than him, louder than me, louder than—

_… I’ve never wanted anything so bad my entire life._

I don’t want to hand her over, I don’t want to let her go, I don’t want to give her… to him.

I don’t want _Alan_ to take her away.

_Maybe being selfish is okay. This once._

“You know, you seem really eager to make this a contest, but how’re you gonna do that, huh?” I snarl, and Alan snaps his head my way. A sharp pain builds in my chest. I think it might be anger. “Whoever she says yes to wins? Hah! Just how stupid is that? Just how stupid _are_ you?”

Alan remains silent. His eyes bore into me. He’s not going to respond? Fine! I bet he doesn’t even have anything to say! Where are his words now, huh? Hah!

“What’s even the point of confessing if we’re both gonna do it? Amy can only choose one of us. Not to mention! There’s a chance she’ll choose neither of us!” I feel myself running low on air, but I’ve still got more to say, so I’ll deal with that later. “What then? Comfort each other? Rejection buddies? The scorned men’s club?”

It’s a bit like someone’s popped open a cap kept locked within the darkest corners of my mind. I feel like I can say anything. I feel like I can do anything. I want to deck him across the face! There’s adrenaline running up and down my arms and I can totally do it. I can totally punch him! And he wouldn’t be able to hit me back!  

I clench my fists. If I punch him, then he’ll probably start to cry and he’ll run off somewhere to bitch about it to… Amy.

He’ll tell Amy.

_And then she’ll hate me forever._

I unclench my fists. I inhale a breath so deep I feel my nostrils expand to new horizons. The pain simmers down a little.

“Put yourself in Amy’s shoes for a second, will you?” I take the time to make a more slow, controlled approach. “If both her close friends confess at the same time, don’t you think she’ll feel too pressured to turn down either of them? You’re not thinking of her at all, really, are you?”

Silence settles in between us. But Alan doesn’t seem to be speechless at all. In fact, it’s more like he’s giving _me_ time to think.

A wry smile snakes onto his face.

“… You’re assuming you’ll be rejected, then.” His words are laced with soft, bitter laughter.

_Ha-ha._

Is Alan claiming he’ll bring different results? Or is he just trying to provoke me again? Doesn’t matter, either way.

_In the end, he doesn’t understand what’s really important, does he?_

There’s pressure building up behind my eyes, and no matter how hard I blink, this weird, pricking sensation won’t go away. I laugh cynically.

“I’d prefer that over causing a misunderstanding… drama. You just want to force your feelings onto Amy, don’t you? That all you care about? Hah!” I feel a lump in my throat, and when I try to swallow it down my voice goes all raspy and angry and… revolting. “No matter how much you like someone, there’s definitely something wrong with forcing them to accept your feelings. You’re a jerk, you know that? You disgust me. Absolutely. To the core.” Words tumble out my mouth before I can process them, and I realise I’ve said more than I was supposed to. There was no need to say any… of _that_. There was no need to be so… so horrible.

My anger is almost enough to rub off the guilt, but it doesn’t go away that easy. Alan’s tiny, uneven breathing doesn’t help.

“I…” He hesitates for a second. “I simply like Amy as she is, and that’s all. Even if she doesn’t return my feelings, I will still continue to like her.”

_An endless pursuit? What’s the point of that? Doesn’t he seek a goal? Fulfilment?_

I don’t understand this at all. How much of a poor self-degenerate _is_ he?

I want to grill him… I want to ask him so much more, but I’m afraid I’ll say something even worse. Alan, just standing there, smiling quietly… he doesn’t deserve it. If I hurt him I’ll hate myself above anything. I can’t find the guts to speak up.

I keep waiting, but he doesn’t elaborate on his answer. Was I supposed to just have said my last words and left…? Too late for that now. Maybe we’re doing a Mexican standoff.

I feel my phone vibrate from within the depths of my bag. This late… it’s probably Mum. ‘ _Honey! Where are you? I was worried sick! Come home, eat, okay? You need a balanced diet!_ ’ Every time she calls she says that. Exactly. It’s like she’s got it taped to the back of her hand. Last time she called, Frazer asked me why I needed to be reminded by my own mother to eat healthy and Evan asked if my piss was still sickly green. I hate her.

But the more I think about it, it’s the perfect opportunity to get me out of this situation. ‘Ah, yeah, sorry dude, would love to stay and chat but if I do then my mum might actually have a heart attack. You know how they are.’ It’s perfect.

I move to leave, but Alan intercepts. He throws out a bony arm and for a small second I admire how quick-witted he is.

“Oh, come on! Just say it already!” He suddenly just starts yelling at me. He grabs onto my hands. “I’ve been waiting so long for an answer!”

I flinch away on instinct—and sigh. It’ll grow into a real pain if I don’t end this here.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. I won’t be confessing to Amy.” And that’s it. That’s all he’s getting from me.

Alan gasps, surprised, before a look of tremendous defeat creeps onto his face. _So, he really was planning on convincing me into a confession pact…_ What, he can’t do it himself?

Coward.

With a light head, I turn away and wave him off.

“See you.”

I leave the parking lot. There’s no reply. No voice calling me back.

_For the better, right?_

 

I head back down the footpath and momentarily wonder what Frazer and Evan would have discussed without me. What kind of lore did I miss? Am I going to be extremely outdated?

Evan’s totally going to ask me about what happened, huh? It isn’t something I can just tell him about…

I’ll just say he wanted my number— _no_. That’s hella suspicious. What, the new guy asks one of your friends to meet alone? Oh, and he wants his _number_? Yeah, they’re definitely fucking.

Yeah, but we’re not! But will Evan believe that?

Probably, yeah. I don’t think Evan’s really that interested in whether I’ve hooked up or not. 

I think. I think I don’t think. Huh.

I shake my head. My thoughts are like flies. I’m the cow shit. Every time I think they’re gone, they just swarm me again.

I can see our dusty brick roof in the distance. Oh, thank god. Nearly home. I’ll sneak in and hopefully Mum will keep the interrogation lowkey, and then I’ll charge up to my room and clock out.

Sounds like a solid plan.


	20. Throbbing Thoughts and Throbbing Headaches

**CALVIN**

Sounded like a solid plan.

See, I actually succeed Stages 1 & 2 pretty well. I make my way into the house, keeping it chill, Mum greets me with a half-assed hug, gives me a grain cookie even though she knows I don’t eat those things, and then asks me if I want dinner, to which I reply no, to which Mum asks why (to which Dad’s disembodied voice interrupts with, “CAL! THERE YOU ARE!” from the living room), and I say that I’d eaten out with some friends already.

To conclude the Welcome Home fiasco, Mum asks me if I invited the emo boy and I tell her not to call him that.

On my way up the stairs, I catch a glimpse of what Dad’s watching. It’s some popular reality TV show, and I don’t know much about it, except that it involves a lot of crying and women and probably crying women.

Next is the ‘clocking out’.

I reach my room and flimsy fingers flip on the light switch. I’m blinded for a second, then hobble over to my bed, which takes up most of the room. I turn on the bedside lamp as well, meaning to walk back over to turn off the other one, but can’t find the energy to because there’s something really heavy weighing on my body and I think it’s more emotional than physical this time. So I sink into my bed and switch off the lamp again. Its light lasted a good minute.

I’m lying face-down, which makes it hard to breathe, but also means that the main light can’t reach my eyes. I’ve read that even the smallest of light can interrupt the sleep cycle. (I’ve also read that electronics can interrupt the sleep cycle, but I’ve elected to ignore that.)

Last time I checked, it was around eight-thirty. Heading to bed real early today. Usually I don’t get to do that, mostly because of homework and projects, but today’s my first day back and teachers have been lenient, so I’ll take this chance to catch some Good Sleep.

Update: I’m getting used to a squashed nose. Lying face-down could work out for me. I keep worrying that maybe the main light might affect me later in the night, but I reassure myself that it’ll be fine because I’ve fallen asleep in theatres before, and theatres are practically just giant lightboxes.

I shut my eyes tight and try to lull my brain into rest.

 

_Throb. Throb. Throb._

A headache has entered the scene. How? I don’t know. I get headaches so much they might as well replace my entire brain. And they always strike at the worst times.

It isn’t so bad, really. Almost like dying.

I shut my eyes even tighter.

 

Update update: I can’t sleep.

It’s becoming more and more obvious to me the slow, hollow throb of the headache that nibbles at the back of my skull, sinking its fangs deeper into my brain with every throb. The headache forces me to maintain some weak connection to the outside world. And that’s terrible because, if you haven’t noticed, sleep often requires a transcendent body experience, which this headache is not letting me achieve.

I’m not an insomniac. I’m not the kind of person who usually has trouble sleeping. It only takes me about ten minutes at the max, and that’s even on really bad days.

This must be a really, really, really bad day.

I’m pretty sure it’s been about half an hour now. The only real sense of time passing is the clanking of the pots and pans as Dad does the dishes and probably engages in some kind of musical number with Mum while he does it.

One could argue it’s the constant noise and the constant light that’s keeping me up, but I don’t think that’s the case, because I’ve got thoughts so heavy and loud they drown out all of that. So, I reckon it’s actually the Thoughts.

I don’t even know what most of them are, because they float along like food on a conveyer belt—you see one for about two seconds and before you know it, it’s gone. But every belt has its source. Its ingredients. Its cooks.

In this case, the source, ingredients, and cooks are all the same person, and it’s Alan. No real surprise; he’s been on my mind a lot lately.

But I don’t think my thoughts have ever been this… what, complicated? So much that it actually physically hurts. The light’s on and it should be bright, but everything feels dark and cold. And I feel a few things.

Anger. Betrayal. ( _Betrayal?_ ) Guilt. Oh, yeah, a lot of guilt.

Guilt is a tricky thing. A little can motivate you to do better. Too much, and you’re unable to function. I’d say I’m somewhere… midst of it all. I’m not unable to function, I’m just unable to sleep. Which might lead to being unable to function.

There’s a lot of reasons to be guilty. Because I’m a shitty human being. Because I’m a selfish human being. Because I’m a human being. Because I’m still alive. Because…

I got really mad at Alan today. I’m taking the time to reflect, in this bright room, and I’ve lifted my head so now I’m not face-down _or_ face-up, I’m head-up. Spirits down.

I don’t think all of that anger was justified in any way. Alan has the right to act how he wants to. He has the right to say what he wants. He has the right to get what he wants. I’ve just treated him like some inferior human scum, and he doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

Hah. It’s kinda funny. I say all these things and act all grown up, but I know I’d never be able to apologise to him. Ever. Because my mouth just doesn’t work that way. My words don’t work that way. I want to say so many things… but they have to go through, like, seven million barriers first.

So, I keep quiet. It’s not as easy to express my thoughts anymore. I used to talk a lot as a child, actually. I think _not_ talking was more impressive than _talking_ back then.

Then, things happened. I don’t know. I stopped talking, because I’d say the wrong things. Not ‘wrong’ as in pronouncing things wrong… I can’t say things the way I want to. ‘ _You don’t always have the right words. So, you stumble, before you even walk_.’ My therapist, Natalie, says this. She’s probably right.

… I said I wasn’t going to confess to Amy. I still stand by that. It’s not that I don’t want to… I really _do_ want to… I want her to know how I feel so _bad_ —but it’s more like, I don’t think I actually _can_. Not because I’d be embarrassed or anything like that, but more because I don’t think my mouth plans on cooperating with me any time soon. I don’t really want to take any chances.

If I slip up, that’s it. That’s the end. Amy’ll hate me, and I’ll be back on… not even square one. Negative square one.

Not to mention, she likes someone else! Oh, yeah! How could I forget about that?

She doesn’t even like you! Why are you even thinking about the ‘chances’?

“Aaaggh…”

See what I mean about Thoughts? They swarm you, until you’re so overwhelmed you just want to…

Whatever.

My phone vibrates gently against my thigh. Oh, great. I was planning on sleeping with a metal brick shoved in my pants, _and_ it’s not even on Do Not Disturb. I really wish I’d passed out, now.

It’s still cold. Weird, because the heat hasn’t, like, gone away or anything. Which means I’ve kept my doona locked in the closet, and I don’t have at all the energy to fetch it. I keep shivering.

The constant vibrating means it’s a call. I wait until it’s over, so I can take the time to stare wearily at the lock screen and ponder whether I should call back or not.

I flip off my phone cover. A missed call blinks balefully at me just out of the corner of my eye.

 

**evanescence iston**

Missed Call (2)

 

Woah. Two. Looks like Evan called _twice_. I guess I’m not at all used to the calling vibrations; I didn’t even notice the difference.

I press my fingers against my body, under my armpits, in an attempt to warm them up. The tips are like ice. Even through the fabric of my shirt (which I… haven’t changed out of), I wince at the sudden sting. If there was just a way I could… telekinetically remove the doona from the closet…

Doesn’t exist. Guess I’ll suffer.

My phone buzzes again. It’s a text, because it’s way short, and I know the difference this time.

 

**evanescence iston**

> cal… you even there?? pls pick up… my calls… T_T

 

I stare at the message for a while. There’s a hollow ache in my chest. I really don’t know if I’m, uh, mentally up for a call, but I don’t want him to worry.

Plus, a friendly chat might be the Switch. Maybe it’ll tire me out. Maybe I’ll feel better…

My fingers dart across the screen before I’ve even finished the thought.

Evan answers on the first ring.

“Cal!” Evan’s voice is ecstatic. “You called!”

“Yeah…”

“Cal…” The enthusiasm in his voice dies. “You sound even worse than I’d thought. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

I consider changing it up, but my brain decides that, no, I’m not creative nor conscious enough for that, so I just give him the same, “Yeah…”

Evan doesn’t respond. I hear really loud, concerned breathing on his end. Somehow.

I slap a hand against my thigh. _Remember your main objective. Evan worrying = bad. What’re you doing? Making him worry. Yeah. Fix that._

“I’m absolutely _fine_ , dude,” I say, and I don’t think I sound as dead this time. “What’s up with you? Dawg?”

“Don’t use ‘dawg’, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Got it, dawg.”

Evan sighs. “You’re really fine?” His voice is small, like Alan’s, but _un_ like Alans, it doesn’t make me feel excessively mad or guilty.

I smile. I don’t feel the passion a smile’s supposed to have.

“Evan, you’re my canary.”

“Your _what_.”

“If you hate me, then I know the mine is poisonous.”

“Cal! Why would I hate you? What… What poison?!”

I rub at my eyes. They’re dry. It hurts to blink, but I’m still not tired enough to drop off.

“You’re right… why am I saying any of this? I don’t even know what I’m saying,” I grumble. “It’s just pointless rambling. Just… Just igno—”

“ _Calvin_!” Evan’s voice shifts, and I can practically _hear_ the pout. “Did you just call me to make me worry even more? Because I’m not going to be able to sleep if you keep acting like this.”

_We’ll consider that a Mission Failure, then. Congrats, Coronel Calvin._

“Ugh, I’m sorry, Evan… I don’t know what’s going on with me… I should go.”

But I don’t hang up, and neither does Evan. The silence expands, engulfing us both… connecting us both. It’s weird.

“Cal…” Evan is quiet, but his voice is steely. I don’t know how he does it. He has some kind of motherly control over me. I feel my senses perk up.

“Yeah…?”

“Umm…” He drags out the ‘umm’ as long as he can while he thinks. He pinches in a few breaths, then lets them go, the way he does whenever he’s got something to say but gives up on it in the end. Then he laughs. “Hey… Hey, nothing _weird_ happened, right?”

“Weird?”

“You know…” Evan clears his throat. “Between you and Alan.”

_He’s trying to shift the air, right? Good on him. Appreciate it._

I let myself laugh. My headache constrains a little harder.

“Nah, dude. What, d’you think we made out or something?”

“No!! Of course not!!” he says, laughing, but more high-pitched and panicked. “I mean… I’d hope not…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Haha…”

I swallow a spit ball, and gorge up a terrific and simultaneously horrible idea. I can see great payoff, but it makes me sick to the stomach.

So I’m doing it.

I clear my own throat. “Does my little Evan have a little thing for little Alan over here?” My lips curl into a lazy smile. “You can tell granny.”

Payoff? Heck Yes. Evan makes another panicked pig scream, and I can picture him going absolutely beetroot and probably dying. Not going to lie—does make me feel a bit better.

Evan stumbles through a hybrid of the words ‘no’… and, well, ‘no’, but he pronounces this one word so badly it could practically be him jamming the whole dictionary into his mouth.

“Aww, but what about little Phoebe?” I say, reaching for whatever emotional blackmail I can find on a buggy mind. “Is Phoebe Sherman actually a Forever Alone?”

(I’ve actually heard that Phoebe Sherman is an aromantic. Haven’t told Evan for… y’know, obvious reasons.)

“Actually…” Evan lowers his voice. “I’ve heard that… Phoebe’s aromantic.”

Oh.

“And, uh… you know…” He’s breathing very heavily on the phone. But it’s not gross or anything… it actually kinda makes the cold room feel a bit better… a bit warmer… I don’t know. Evan takes a sharp breath. “Can I… talk about something for… for a second? I feel a bit— if I can just…”

“Yeah, go ahead, dude.”

There’s a period of silence, where it’s just Evan breathing. He gathers his thoughts. We do this sometimes—kinda like those starlit scenes on the hillside when the brooding hero lets the protag in on his tragic past, except it’s two fifteen-year-olds and petty high school drama.

“I fake, uh… I act like I’m all about Phoebe… I’m always acting so goddamn stupid… because, uh, I feel like I have to? Like… I’m expected to? Like that’s who… that’s who I am,” he starts to say. My brain very slowly puts together the pieces, which is fine for him, because it gives him more speaking time. “You and Frazer… both have a crush. You and Frazer have found someone to love. Someone to truly care… to devote yourselves to? I’ve always seen that as, like… a purpose. I’ve always imagined that once I fell in love, I’d find a purpose. In life. Maybe.”

That, uh, actually makes a lot of sense to me. Is that how I think, too? Do I… _relate_ to Evan, the huge romantic? Is Amy my purpose?

_Have I become that dependant…?_

I don’t voice any of my thoughts, because it doesn’t really seem necessary right now. Evan keeps talking.

“I guess I just wanted to be like you two. Because I… I want to fit in.” His voice rattles and shakes as he speaks. Like he’s been wanting to say this for a while now. “You two picked girls from the Art Club. Amy and Taila… and then there was Phoebe. Left unpicked. And, if I dare say…” Evan chuckles, “I kinda felt… sorry for her. So, I aimed for her. So that us three could line up with… those three. So it would be all nice and harmonious. It felt a bit artistic to me, y’know?” Another chuckle. Small. 

It would be so much easier if we were doing this in person. I’d let him lie on my lap and we’d turn off all the lights… and maybe turn on some good tunes… and it’d just be him talking it out, and he wouldn’t even have to look at me… all he’d need is the knowledge that I’m by his side. Literally.

I like doing things in person. It’s much easier to be sincere that way. To be connected. And physical touch… is nice. (Sometimes Evan’s hair almost feels as good as Amy’s.)

There wouldn’t be the need for any ‘uh-huh’s or ‘yeah’s just to signal I’m listening… all I would need to do is lightly nudge him. I wouldn’t need to talk at all. I’d just let him do all the talking he needs. And then.

We’d deal with the rest later. Together.

But we’re not together, so I have to egg him on with an, “Uh-huh?”

“I showed a bit of interest in her… you remember? A few years ago?”

“Uh-huh.”

He laughs. “And you guys really encouraged me! It felt so good! I felt like I was doing the right thing! Like I…” he gets so much quieter, “had finally found a purpose…”

I blink. I’m not blinking away anything, I just blink.

“Uh-huh?”

No words, yet. I’ll save my opinion for the end. Let him ride out his train of thought, first.

“But it didn’t work out at all the way I thought it would,” Evan continues. “I always thought that the hardest part would be to find a love. And then… after you found that special person, that everything would just… figure itself out? Because…” I hear a snivel from his end. ( _Oh no_.) He just sighs. “Because… haha… love finds a way! Or something.”

Then, silence. I can’t even hear his breathing anymore. Maybe I need to say something. It’s appropriate, right? I call his name.

“Evan?”

It seems to do the trick. His breaths are back, but softer now.

“Well, it _didn’t_ find a way,” he snickers. “The relationship was really slow… Which is sometimes a good thing, of course! Good things come to people who wait, don’t they say?”

This is an Evan thing. He always has to go out of his way to make everything he says… politically correct. He counters his points before he makes them. He doesn’t let himself just… _speak_ , which gets frustrating sometimes. If you cut out all the ‘oh, but’s and the excuses, then you’d get to his point in about two seconds.

“But… But the thing is…” he’s saying. “I just… didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. I like Phoebe, I really do. She’s great. She’s awesome. Super cool. Yeah.”

There we go again. ( _“I don’t want people to hate me,_ ” is what he says. “ _I want them to think I’m good… because they’re all good people. Too._ ”)

I go, “Yeah?” because his end’s fallen off again. I decide only to speak when the conversation halts, to, like, kick it back into him, y’know? Evan tends to get lost in his own mind a lot.

“Oh, uh… she’s a great friend, Phoebe,” he responds airily. “But, honestly? I don’t see anything… uh, _more_ than that. And… And it’s so… _hard_ … to say any of this because I feel like…” Evan’s voice starts to crack. “I just feel like I’m breaking it! I’m ruining it! I’m breaking the pattern! I can’t _even_ … do this simple thing. I can’t be what people expect… I’m a huge burden and all I ever do is mess up and let people down and I can just never, ever—”

“ _EVAN_!”

Yeah, forget not talking, this is urgent.

“Just… shut up for a second.” I clear my throat. “I mean… sorry. But just… don’t you fucking _dare_ speak of yourself like that.” I sound a lot angrier than I’m supposed to be.

“What?”

“You’re a great, shining person, and you should know that.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, here…”

I sigh. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You remember what this year is all about?”

Silence.

“No.”

“Self-care,” I say. “Remember now?”

Evan shifts on his end. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Yeah, I do.” I close my eyes. “I know who you are. You’re better than you’d think.”

He snickers. “I don’t even know who I am… how could you…?”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve run out of moral wisdom. But I know I need _something_. That’s a taken.

“I knew it,” Evan says. There’s something else in his voice. “If you… have got nothing else to say, I’ll just, uh… go, or…”

Fuck.

“Wait.”

“Huh?”

I’ve got something. I’m going to say something. And, y’know, maybe it won’t matter to him, but it’s worth a try.

“Love gives you a purpose,” I start. “Is that right?”

“I guess.”

“Well, Evan. You know what?”

“What?”

“ _I_ love you.”

Somehow, it’s not at all hard to say. Somehow, it just rolls off the tongue. Freely. No worrying, no planning, no strategizing. Maybe my world can work that way, too.

Evan takes a while to respond. And when he does, it’s a small, uncertain, “What?”

“I’ll repeat if I have to.” I smile. “I love you.”

He gives a soft, whisky laugh. “Yeah, but… as a friend. You know. It’s a bit different.” He sighs. “Not that I’m not, uh, thankful or anything…”

Haha. I guess it doesn’t really matter to him. That’s okay.

“A time where it was just us,” I say, without really thinking.

“A time where it was just us?” he echoes.

“Wasn’t it fun? Simple.” I believe I’m kinda rambling. I don’t really know what I’m saying, but it’s _something_ and Evan’s still on the line.

“It was… fun,” he responds absently.

“We didn’t have to worry about love or anything like that.” A grin sticks itself to my face. “Hey. What _did_ we have to worry about, exactly?”

Evan chuckles. “Cafeteria food.”

“Oh, yeah. That shit was nasty.”

“But we had Mum’s.”

“Not all the time, y’know?” I stick my grin into a pout. Feels kinda weird. “Remember the days you wouldn’t show up? Yeah. I had to actually eat the cafeteria food.”

“Oh… sorry.” I hear a soft sigh. “… It was easier back then. I… _We_ had each other.”

“We still do.”

Momentarily, there’s nothing but the cold air. No breathing, either.

“Yeah, but now there’s Frazer. And Amy.” Evan hesitates for a second. “And… Phoebe.”

“And Taila,” I add. “And speaking of Taila… I feel like he should just ask her out, y’know? I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Humiliation,” he says immediately. “Embarrassment, fire, explosions, collisions, tears, nudity, and death.”

“Jesus Christ, Evan. Is this a confession or a Michael Bay movie?”

“If it’s Frazer, it’s probably both.”

Evan laughs – and I think I might actually melt because it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, ever – then the air dips back into silence. It might be a bit awkward, but it gives me time to plan out what else to say.

Evan speaks up first.

“So many things have changed,” he says, so soft it might as well be a whisper. “It’s not… just us anymore. It’s a bit scary… I never really noticed until now.”

I have to stop and think about that for a second. He’s right. A lot of things have changed. Now we all have these complicated feelings and emotions… and responsibilities. And my mind isn’t all Evan and food anymore.

But—

“Well, you know what hasn’t changed?” I ask him. He doesn’t entertain me with a response. I’ll continue without it. “My huge, _throbbing_ love and appreciation for you.”

A moment’s hush, and then,

“Oh my god, Cal,” he snorts. 

“You heard it here first.”

“Oh my _god_ , Cal.” I can imagine him standing up from the bed, head in his hands, lapping me. “Oh my god, Cal.”

I shrug, in, like, a smug way. Though he can’t see it.

“We had a moment,” he says. “We had a serious moment.”

“Well, who says I’m not being serious?”

Evan scoffs. “Like… _everything_ about what you just said?”

“I mean it all, though,” I laugh. “Never forget that.”

“No promises.”

And that’s good enough for me.


	21. Escape! Into Space

**CALVIN**

The whole line goes silent, Evan’s breathing onto the phone, and I’m given a moment to reflect. And recollect.

To be completely honest, there’s also something else on my mind. Now that all my other Thoughts have… simmered for the time being, it floats to the top and bathes in the limelight. It’s not too important… but we’ve reached a peace in our chat, and this might be the best chance I’ll get.

I just want to get it over with, and maybe I’ll finally be able to sever my connection to the outside world and achieve the ‘clocking out’.

“So,” I say. “Alan, huh?”

Evan answers in a slurred, “Huh? What?”

I clarify, but only very so slightly. “You got your eye on him?”

He breathes in a loud ‘ _haaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ ’. “No…” Nervous laughter. “Maybe… uh… Not. Really.”

“Really?”

“Really…”

“If you say so,” I croon. “Major opportunities, though…”

“Cal!!” He shouts so loud I almost drop my phone. “I!”

“You?”

“ _I_ … Well, Alan’s really cool. Like, really, really, really cool. He’s also a really good friend!” he starts to say, and I smile. Evan’s never been that hard to get info out of. “And! He’s smart! He’s super smart! You know earlier today? I was completely floored! And I’m an expert on frogs!”

Oh. They were debating about frogs, then. Wildlife it is.

I croak. “Croak croak~”

“Was that really necessary.”

“For effect, yeah.”

“ _A_ nyway.” He starts again. “I guess I might? Maybe? _Like_ Ala— Oh!” Evan manages to interrupt himself with a huge, _huge_ gasp. “Oh! I almost forgot! How could I forget? He’s really pretty! Like, I’d say he’s handsome or something because he’s a dude, but, honestly? Pretty. Super pretty. And, uh, dudes can be pretty, too! I think the word’s pretty, here.”

I snort. Nice ramble. The diagnosis here might be stronger than projected, doc.

“That it?”

“Mmmmmm,” Evan hums. “Probably other things… might be there. But. They’re not important right now.”

“Okay,” I say. “Just so you know—if you’re interested, I can probably hook you up.”

It’s not _really_ a lie. Alan’s target… female… isn’t Evan, but if I try hard enough, I might just be able to fix that.

If he works with me—

Amy and I. Alan and Evan. A perfect separation. That’d be awesome.

Evan responds at almost lightning speed. “What? Huh? What do you mean by that? What did you guys even _do_ back there?”

“Haha.” I wave him off on my end. “Nothing for you to worry about. It’s just an offer, man.”

There’s a period of silence, probably Evan thinking it over. I scuff my foot against the bedframe, and hit a stray nail. I hiss in pain. Evan’s still not responsive. I suffer on my own.

When Evan starts talking again, his tone is a deadly low.

“Cal, I don’t know if you know this, but Alan isn’t interested in me. At all,” he’s saying. “He’s got a crush on Amy.”

I feel myself suck in a breath, and I don’t let it go. I go light-headed all over again. Somehow, the headache still doesn’t want to relent.

_I didn’t think he knew that._

“Huh,” is all I can say.

“He talks about her all the time,” Evan mutters. “I don’t mind, though.”

Again, “Huh.”

“So, uh… I know you like her, too, and I didn’t really want to have to tell you, but…”

I cut him off. “No, I already knew.”

He sounds surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

His end goes quiet. Then, “Cal, I don’t know what you’re planning.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Look.” He sighs. “I know how much you like Amy. And I really support you guys!”

I nod. _Okay. There’s definitely a but_.

“But—” _Okay. There it is_. “Alan… also… really likes her. I can see that, and…” Evan pauses. “Wait, you’re not planning on interfering, are you?”

Why is he so shocked? It’s not even that bad of a thing. People do it all the time. He sounds like he’s just heard me cheat on my wife.

“So what if I am?” I seethe.

An intangible heaviness settles in between the two of us. It feels as if time has stopped, and the only things occurring in this moment are pain and…

 _And here we go again_. There’s that familiar rush of anger. Anger’s supposed to be painful, right? Doesn’t feel painful at all. It’s nothing compared to the headache, anyway. The two teamed up—they, like, clear my mind, and for a small second, I can see my goal again.

_Amy. That’s what you want, right? C’mon… it’s one of the only things you’ve ever wanted!_

_And what are these… these_ people _doing? Alan… and Evan. They’re **obstacles** , that’s what._

But Evan’s my friend.

_That doesn’t have to end. That doesn’t have to stop you from doing what you have to do._

“Cal, it’s wrong,” I hear Evan say. I don’t believe him. _He’s_ wrong.

“No, it’s not,” I say robotically.

“How isn’t it?”

“I’m competing with him. That’s what he wanted.” I laugh. “Oh, you wouldn’t know it, but this is actually what he wants! He wants a challenge! I’m giving him a challenge,” I explain. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“That’s…” Evan trails off. Clears his throat. “That’s not competing. That’s not fair.”

“I don’t see why it’s not.”

“Sabotage isn’t _right_ , Cal.”

_It’s a good idea, though._

I grind my teeth. “I never said I would sabotage anyone.”

“But that’s what you’re planning, isn’t it?” He takes a deep breath. “Oh, please tell me it isn’t…”

I don’t give him a response. I don’t want to hurt him, and, in this kind of mental state, I almost know that I will. I’ve got enough guilt already.

_This doesn’t even affect him at all. He just needs to back off. Why is he trying to get involved?_

“Oh my god,” Evan says. “Cal… try to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

‘ _I’m being perfectly reasonable_ ,’ is what would roll off the tongue so easy. I keep it locked inside my mind.

“This isn’t reasonable…” Evan’s gotten all quiet and shaky again. Anger pulls me down one road. Guilt pulls me down another.

“Oh, really?” I take Anger’s hand. “Like you know anything, Evan. No, no, hold on. Don’t even answer. You _don’t_ know anything, okay? Stick to your little fantasies. Hearts? Chocolate? Flowers? That’s all you fucking know. I listen to your story and I try my best to cheer you up and this is what you fucking give me? Advice. Yeah. Great advice. I’d definitely take advice from _Evan Iston_. You know what? You’re free to believe whatever the fuck you want to believe. Don’t bring me into it. Stay out of this.”

I know I’m babbling, but it’s like as soon as I open my mouth everything flings out and my brain is always, _always_ too fucking slow to catch on, ever, so I find myself causing damage in the first five seconds that I can never undo and I don’t want to face the future so I just keep talking… and talking… and talking and, Jesus Christ, every word I spit is poison and

_I’m even babbling in my own thoughts. What words are coming out of my mouth…? I can’t hear my voice. Can Evan hear me?_

_Is Evan okay?_

Like someone’s been ordered to halt my words on cue, I feel something catch in my throat. I cough. I sputter and slur the rest of my sentence of whatever the fuck I was saying, letting it drip from my mouth like dejected water droplets from a leaky faucet. _Haha_. Water. That’s funny because my face feels wet and, shit, am I crying?

I am. Oh boy.

Everything’s breaking faster than I can fix it, and it’s driving me over the edge.

I stop everything and just listen… listen for _anything_ , and a good chunk of me hopes he hung up somewhere in the middle of my bullshit—but, no, he hasn’t: he stayed around because he’s an idiot.

Or—

He’s a good friend. My head doesn’t even let me in on the “ _I don’t deserve it_ ” thoughts. It just spins. And spins and spins and spins. It kinda hurts, I guess.

Then I hear it. A tiny, devastating sniffle. I physically feel the dangling pieces of my mind snap and shatter. It hits me like a freight train, knocking the wind out of me, urging me to just lay on the ground and sink into the earth and I kinda do wish I was actually being hit by a train so I wouldn’t have to be here anymore. And I wouldn’t have to deal with Evan… crying. Of course he would be crying right now. After I’ve been so absolutely shit to him.

I don’t think there’s anything I can say at all, and I don’t think I even want to say anything, to be honest.

“… I’m so sorry, Cal,” he whispers, his voice sick with hiccups. Evan sucks in a short, shaky breath. He clears his throat. “Just… Why not think about Amy a little more and decide what to do after you’ve slept on it?”

I can’t believe it. I actually can’t believe it. After everything…? He’s still looking out for me?

“Evan, I’m sorry.”

“Hey—”

I hang up.

 

Update update update: Call didn’t make me feel better. The world moves slow. It’s a bit like experiencing jet lag. I don’t feel like I’m even in my own body.

I’ve managed to turn off the main light, though. That’s an improvement.

I sit, my phone in hand, on my bed, in my dark room, surrounded by… I don’t know. Dead air? My chest feels even heavier than before. It’s still cold. I think Mum and Dad have gone to bed. There’s no pots or pans or musical numbers. Just me. And the dark. Oh, and the cold. The guilt hasn’t gone away, either, I don’t think. And why would it, anyway.

I hardly deserve a break, but I selfishly decide not to do another reflection. I don’t want to think about what just happened, because it won’t help me ‘clock out’. I like that term. It’s simple and it sounds really cool. ‘ _Clock out_ ’. Fun to say, too. I just wish it was that simple to do.

I flop back onto the bed, and curl up into a small, cold ball. I ask myself some questions. Like a therapy session.

_Do I hate myself?_

“Maybe.”

_Is that okay?_

“No.”

_Am I okay?_

Silence.

“No.”

I don’t know, really. My next session with Natalie is in two weeks. I want it to be sooner… I want to talk to someone. I want someone to tell me it’ll be okay.

I stretch a hand up to the ceiling and pensively watch the plastic stars glow, and… oh, there’s Saturn! I love Saturn. It’s my favourite planet, and I don’t usually like admitting it because then people ask me why, and I don’t have a complicated, scientific reason… I just like it because it looks cool. It has cool rings. It’s awesome.

I’ve always wanted to land on Saturn, even though I know it’s impossible because it’s a gas planet and you can’t land on gas planets. But it’s still fun to think about. I’d land on Saturn, then… my body would be completely free, if not for the cord connecting me to my space shuttle.

And this is a really, really stupid thought… but I’ve always imagined that standing in the centre of Saturn’s huge rings… would feel like a warm, warm hug. A planet giving me a hug… a _gas_ planet giving me a hug… with its rings… comprised of space rocks… it feels really nice…

It’s a thought that helps me through hard times. A good Thought. Escapism, is that what they call it? Kinda like that.

I close my eyes.

I want to run away. To space… Would it be fly away, then?

I want to travel lightyears away from where anyone can reach me. A space without gravity. A space without relationships.

Space.

Where is my home? A planet far, far away? Saturn? Where am I supposed to go?

In the darkness, like this…

_Could I dare to hope?_

In the darkness, surrounded by stars…

_Could I…_

“It’s going to be okay.” The whisper is light, soft. It doesn’t stand a chance against the roar of the room’s air conditioning unit.

But the words weigh heavily on my tongue.

Here… there are only two states. On, or off. Earth, or space. Alive, or—

Our first date would be a drive to somewhere new. I’d plan it carefully, though, of course. But. It would be somewhere where every molecule of air would make me feel far from home. Somewhere where the light of civilisation can’t find me.

Somewhere where the only light I need… is her. Cliché, but a cool one! Could I even let myself believe?

Jet lag. Headache. Every _Throb! Throb! Throb!_ , another reminder that I’m still alive. Tonight is a night spent lost on the horizon, trying to navigate my way back to Earth. But do I want to go back at all?

My mind drifts back to the date planning.

I’d bring snacks. A blanket. And a telescope.

_Does she have a favourite star…? Maybe a planet, even?_

As I ponder, Evan’s words play over and over in my head. _After I sleep on it, huh… I’d need to sleep, first._

… I want my doona.

With a strong, cosmic power, I pull myself up, and blindly feel my way over to the closet. _Top shelf… Top shelf… Ah! There we go._ The heavy, kinda chilling bag of cotton falls into my arms like a baby greeting its father. I almost stumble backwards.

_Shhh, now… papa’s got you…_

I hold my child tight, then let it go. I watch it ungracefully roll onto the bed. When I dive in, my thigh makes a sore _thump_ against the surprisingly hard mattress. _I swear it used to be softer than this… I’m really going mad._

I get to roll around for about two seconds before my headache broadcasts another wave of pain. So now I lie face-up, locked under my doona, looking back up at the stars.

_I think Evan’s right._

All I ever do is wallow and complain. All I ever do is drown in self-pity. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve that…

I need to stop just thinking about myself. I need to take others on board. I need to be more proactive. Yeah, sure, it won’t be _that_ easy, but I’ve got a list; I can take everything one step at a time. _I can ask Natalie… Evan, Frazer for help._

I shoot upright, and grab my phone.

 

Maybe. Just maybe. This could work.


	22. Emotions and Evolutions

**AMY**

Ah, yes. ’Tis the season to sit blankly in your empty classroom, throw out your old wardrobe, and pray the demons get you before exams do. Just me, her (the aliens), and the moon.

It is Autumn, my dudes. Developments! Drama! And _peace_.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but it is now four… uh—I pull out my phone— _twenty-eight_ , and I realise I should probably fucking scram. Now.

Then the phone buzzes and, well, I _think_ it’s probably Mum, but upon examination, it’s actually a notification and it reads… ‘ _prepare pity chips_ ’. I squint at my phone, I squint at the wall, and then it finally falls back to me.

Right. I submitted. To the competition. Taylor. Results soon. Death. Endless destruction. Grinding. Bolthead. Parabolic—

I sigh. “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.” I slam my head down on the desk and the pain signals Regret immediately. The words linger in the air; I claw at my desk and for a moment I think about the odds of maybe changing my name and riding up to Seattle.

Ugh. I didn’t even bring any money today. I’m either walking home, or I’m doing that thing I did when I was twelve, where I snuck onto the bus and faked the SmartRider _beep_ with my mouth.

I slam my head on the desk again because… I don’t really know. Double dose of Regret. Double dose of _ugh_. My last two remaining brain cells raise a toast.

My head feels like such a mess lately. No, I’m still not over it. It’s Regret Time again. I know it was two weeks ago and I know literally no one else cares, but I just feel like that day’s the kind of thing I’ll bolt awake at 3 am, seven years from now thinking about.

Oh! And not to fucking mention, like some poetic, ironic, whatever-the-fuck-ic cherry on top, Cal has spoken, like, one word to me, and that word was “Hi,” and that “Hi,” was three days ago. Not to be a needy bitch, but I’m a pretty needy bitch! I’m like Tinkerbell—she needs attention or she dies. Did we drift? Are we drifting? This is it. This is the end. Brilliant. I break down once in public and all of a sudden everything I know and love is— _BOOM_! Gone!

Okay. Well. It’s not that big of a deal. Cal and I have just been… awkward. It’s like that song? _We Don’t Talk Anymore_? _Somebody That I Used To Know_? I should totally craft an angst playlist and cry for five days straight.

Triple _ugh_ —is that where we’re at? I want to be all cool and casual and act like this doesn’t affect me—be all ‘yeah, bro, sure, you haven’t said shit to me in three days, but it’s all cool, whatever, this is how it be, I guess’—but my anxiety is shooting through the fucking roof. Is it gone? Are we gone? We’re drifting.

We’re drifting.

I’ll never be able to confess to him. Forever alone. _You’ll die alone, and you will deserve it_.

But, y’know, whatever. Not a big deal.

I roll my head back and back more, until my eyes land on—

“AGH! What the fuck!”

Holy shit! How long has he been here? Pain races like a motorcycle through my head. I bolt up.

“‘ _Agh! Frazer, what are you doing here?_ ’” His hands curl into small paws, and I belatedly realise it’s supposed to be like, ‘ _haha xD what a scaredy-cat lol_ ’—and not a furry thing. He sounds like me if I was trapped seven feet underground. “This is exactly what you do every time I show up. Let’s just skip that part. Learn some spatial awareness, or whatever.” Frazer rolls his eyes. I roll mine back. 

 “Sorry, it’s just— you do this thing… where you kinda just…” I wave an arm, “… appear.”

“I’ve been here for about five minutes now.”

“Right.” I dip my head down, then up. “Cool.”

He peers around the classroom semi-curiously. “Something bothering you?”

I flash him a wry smile. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he says as he finally steps away from the door. “Smashing your head? Twice? Do you not remember, or was the brain damage that bad?”

“’Course I do, dick.” I click my tongue. “Wasn’t meant for you.”

“Loud enough to be.”

I inhale sharply through my nose, and— _fuck, fuck, fuck_. Cold air _stings_. Bad idea. It’s been nothing but bad ideas lately. Fuck.

“I don’t really care, but something’s definitely bothering you,” he says again.

Instinctively, I shoot back a: “Why do you care?” You know. Like an idiot.

“I just said I didn’t.” Frazer shrugs it off. “I like being right.”

I sigh. Yeah, sure, I’m definitely aware of how absolutely miserable I look, now, because even Frazer’s noticed.

“Life, I guess,” I say, half-lying. “Same old crap. You happy now, dipshit?”

“Stop calling me ‘dipshit’ and I’ll consider it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Frazer gives a low, uninterested hum, then steadily navigates over to… Cal’s desk.

“Well, I just came to take back something he borrowed.” He pulls out a thick dictionary. Sticky notes sticking out at every corner. Yikes.

“French dictionary?”

“Nice observation,” he drawls. “We got an extra assignment to do. What language do you learn, again?”

“None. Opted out. Too much work.”

There’s that hum again. “Gives a good extra 10% on ATARs, though.”

“Cool.”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“Not one bit.”

Frazer steps away from the desk.

“Are you leaving?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

I wring my fingers. “Wait.”

He gives this distantly interested hum.

“Hey, I’m really, really worried about Cal and I’ll suck your dick if you tell him I love him,” I say. Only I don’t say that. “How’s Cal?” is what makes it to the final cut.

There’s that shrug. “How do you think he is?” he says.

I stand around for a while, not looking at him because Frazer isn’t really someone worth looking at. Then, after a while of nothing, I blink and say, “Uh, did you want a response?”

Shrug again. Give this guy a Grammy. “I was going to wait around, but since you don’t seem to have one ready, all I’ll say is that he’s doing fine. Especially considering that he’s being experimented on, like— like a guinea pig in the lab of love.” And it’s here that he gives me this kind of passive-aggressive hawk eye. I focus even more on not looking at him. ‘Lab of love’? The fuck does he think he is? I bet he’s talking about my bullshit rehearsals in his own roundabout way. I guess it’s kinda justified he’s throwing me shade for such a shitty thing.

“Jesus Christ, Amy, you don’t have to look _sorry_ ,” he says, so I try to look less sorry. “I’m not blaming you for liking who you like. It’s all pointless, anyway.”

I cock an eyebrow at the ground. “What d’you mean by that?”

“What comes up must go down.” Then it’s his turn to look off. “You fall in love, then fall out of it. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Yeah, I guess, but that’s just how life is.” Eyebrow still cocked, but twisted ’til it looks confused. “Don’t tell me you’ve just realised that.”

What, is Frazer going through his becoming-of-age? Booked a reality check? Doesn’t _really_ make sense; he’s always the one preaching that ‘death is inevitable and we’re all worthless anyway’.

“No, of course I wasn’t _unaware_ of that. I suppose it has just recently become a more prominent truth in my life.” He frowns. Frazer’s stopped talking but he hasn’t left, so I can only assume he’s pulling that stunt you see in TED Talks—where they dip their chip in a sauce of dramatic silence and wait around for the audience’s feeble minds to make a noise of agreement. Typical asshole move. I don’t make a noise of agreement.

“Humanity has stopped evolving.” There we go. End of dramatic silence. “We have reached our genetic peak.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that,” I say in an attempt to look even a bit smart. I _have_ heard about it—actually, I read about it, but only because it was suggested on the _News_ app and I was bored out of my sedentary mind. “We’re all able to date whoever we want, whoever’s our type—like, if you’re a midget, you’re still gonna find another midget and have good midget sex and breed.” Deep breath. “No natural selection is taking place. We don’t have to try anymore.”

“Amy,” he says, also with a deep breath, “this is my info-dump. Shut up.” 

“Okay. Goddamn.”

Frazer rolls his eyes. “As I was saying, we find partners to reproduce.” Back in the realm of information overload for no particular reason. “However, nowadays that is a fundamental problem because we are faced with copious amounts of overpopulation, which means, in conclusion, that there is no point in copulating anymore. Subsequently, this also means that humanity, as a species, has made our evolutionary purpose redundant.”

Copulating. ‘Fucking’—but for nerds. He makes it sound like we only live for sex. Never heard of an asexual?

I go, “Mhmm?” because how else am I supposed to respond to that? Whip out a test tube and sample his blood?

“More specifically, I suppose there would be no point in overall existence until our population settles down to a sustainable number, but that might be a bit pessimistic.” Right, like Frazer’s ever cared about being pessimistic. “We don’t live to reproduce anymore. We live to die.”

“And _that_ isn’t pessimistic?”

He ignores me, which I expected. “Love is evolutionarily—and scientifically—unnecessary. These emotions—chemicals.” Frazer looks down, with this weird kind of deadness in his eyes. “It’s strange.”

God, Frazer’s such a nerd it infuriates me. He’s not even the good kind of nerd—y’know, the misunderstood, geeky ones. He’s the technical, up-his-own-ass kind of nerd, who constantly speaks like he’s in a seminar. The kind that always goes out of his way to make his mind a living hell. Is this his robot way of telling me he’s got love problems?

“Well, okay, Mr. Outside In.”

“Inside Out.”

“It’s a joke. Nice spot.” I roll my eyes. “Look, emotions aren’t redundant, jackass. It’s valid,” I say, like a passive-aggressive Tumblr post. “Love is valid, okay?”

“Evolutionarily redundant.” He’s got the stubborn-edge of a five-year-old.

“Maybe some people love just to… _love_. You ever heard of that?” Sappy. Maybe that’ll touch his cliché-cat ass.    

“Pointless,” he still says. “What would you gain?”

Spoken like a true capitalist. I see where he wants to take this.

“Well, you’ve sure been talking like you’ve got some emotions backed up in that cyborg heart of yours.” I tilt my head to the sight of Frazer, cheeks tinted like a bright summer’s day. Ooh, _emotional_ overload. Perhaps he does have an exuberance patch.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, but quickly pulls them out in favour of crossed arms. “You could see it?” he says out of the corner of his mouth, all hunched up, scowling at the carpet.

“Maybe,” I say, and my left hand flings itself in his general direction. “You’ve got that _look_ , dude. I know that look. Suffering.”

Fear—oh, god, _fear_ —flashes through Frazer’s eyes and he starts to back away. “It’s nothing,” he says, voice hard. “Forget about it. It’s stupid.”

He just looks so fucking scared and _no no no_ this isn’t what I wanted.

“No, no, no, it’s not—it’s okay. You’re allowed to let those things in, y’know, okay?” Hand dropped. I look at him with potentially the same sort of fear. God, I don’t even know why I feel bad—maybe I sympathise with him ( _how do you sympathise with_ Frazer _?_ )—but I just know that I feel really bad. “It’s okay.”

He quirks a shaky eyebrow, like someone who’s trying really horribly to imitate Frazer. “Yeah, of course it is. It’s all okay until everyone knows. Will anyone take me seriously anymore? It’s so much easier to stay out of reach.” His eyes flitter up for a second—a measly second—words racing to get out of his mouth. “It’s so frustrating, Amy. It’s so frustrating.”

I’m stuck in this weird loop of confusion, because, one, I understand where he’s coming from; and two, I, uh, don’t understand where he’s coming from. I can’t be the first one to know about this—this thing, because the Frazer I know wouldn’t let himself slip in front of _me_ of all people. It’s frustrating, that’s true, but I don’t think I could ever fathom how Mr. Cyborg sees it, with his whole no-emotion parade and all.

I’m not sure what to say, so I just parrot: “It’s okay.” And he doesn’t look convinced— _why would he be, anyway?_ —so I add a tiny: “People won’t hate you for having emotions, Frazer.”

“They’ll hate me for hiding them.”

Yeah, I _guess_. He’s right. People think he’s a tyrant. And, well, he is an asshole, really—whenever he’s not cooped up in his high-performance classes, he’s nailing lockers shut and mixing lab substances with red ants.

But now he’s here, just looking all confused and lost and making me feel absolutely horrible in ways he’s never tried before. Like, he’s not stepping on my shoelaces, or kicking my pencils across the room, he’s… showing emotion, which just sounds so stupid because normal people don’t get a standing ovation for having fucking feelings, but Frazer—

Doesn’t usually do that.

“Hey,” I say, “you’ve got a bunch of words, I know that. You’ve always got words. Do you have any, uh, feely-words? Like, y’know, anger, sadness?” I’m not a big comforter, but talking it out usually helps. _Why are you trying to_ help _him?_

He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether it’s worth talking to me at all. “Paper,” he eventually says.

“You… want paper?”

Frazer scowls. “Writing is easier.”

“Oh. Go ahead, I guess.”

So paper we go. Frazer’s got this small blue notepad—I see it around sometimes. I asked him why he carries it around everywhere; he says he “hates forgetting things”.

I stand around, subconsciously wondering just how the hell the conversation’s derailed so much, when Frazer cautiously slips a small note across the desk, which is also when I notice he’s stopped backing away. He stares at me with this sort of nervous intensity. I pick up the note; it’s littered with thick and dark letters. Woah. I hardly noticed he was scribbling so hard.

 ‘ _Angry frustrated confused scared angry angry angry angry angry_ ’. I nod to myself. _Okay. Same_. At the bottom, there’s some crossed-out writing, and I can make out the words ‘give’, ‘her’, and ‘don’t’.

“Woah, um, thanks for trusting me with this.”

“Don’t read too deep into it,” he says immediately, all jittery. “I did it without thinking. Give it back.”

That’s a one-eighty if I’ve ever seen one. I hand the note to him.

“Who are you thinking of telling?” Frazer then says, slowly. “I reckon you’ve got a few ideas. Go ahead. Ruin my life. God, I wish this never happened.”

It takes a second to click, and when it does, it feels like being shot in the chest.

“What the fuck? Am I really that low to you?” I want to both laugh and slap him. “You think I did this to fucking _mock_ you?”

“What else do you do, Amy? What am I to expect?”

“Holy shit, Frazer. I’m not that much of a bitch. Am I that much of a bitch?”

Frazer almost—actually, you know what—he _does_ roll his eyes. “Yeah.”

Some snarky remark hangs like a temptation on my tongue, but it doesn’t get anywhere because—what if he’s right? _I_ don’t even know what I’m trying to accomplish with this whole, uh, compassionate therapist act. What was I gonna do with the note? He thinks I’m going to tell everyone. _Well, aren’t you?_

Of course not. The only reason I even feel _bad_ is—

“I just kinda thought I understood… this whole predicament— uh, thing happening right now.” I stiffen up. “Sorry I look like a bitch, or whatever.” _Yeah, you sure sound sorry_. Shut up. _Shut up._

Frazer doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, he heaves this slightly derisive laugh first. “Predicament. I’ve never heard you use that word.”

I breathe a sigh I didn’t know I was holding. “Well, y’know, I’ve been reading around.”

The Frazer Machine dies down—there aren’t any sounds for now—so I take the chance to steer us away from angstville and more into shit-eating town, where I run as mayor.

“Is it Evan?”

He goes beet-red. “Why would it be Evan?”

“He’s a cutie.”

“ _Yes_ , he’s a _do_ rable.” When he sees me eyeing him, he returns it with rolled eyes. “It’s not him.”

I go, “Mhmm?” again because—let’s be honest—Frazer never really cares how I respond to him, anyway.

“A girl.”

“Huh.” Heterosexual. “Wanna elaborate? Go ahead—go all starstruck or whatever.”

“I would never so deliberately handicap myself like that. May I remind you that you and I are not exactly on the best terms?”

I want to reassure him I won’t, uh, mock him (and I _won’t_ ), but I don’t, because we’ve already left angstville in the dust and Frazer seems to be enjoying it more over here, on the boulevard of broken dreams.

“Yeah, but in the name of _l-l-luh_ -ve?” I say instead.

“No.” He quirks the eyebrow again, but this time in a more genuine-Frazer style. “She’s nice. That’s all I will say.”

“Dude, when you have a crush, they’re _always_ nice. Nice personality? Nice ass? Elaborate?”

Frazer looks down, before he gives a: “Both apply.”

Niiiice. “’Kay.”

He makes some kind of “huh,” noise, then waves a hand. “Well,” he pauses where someone like me would’ve just said “uh” (Frazer always picks and polishes his words). “I’m planning on leaving. If you’ve got any last words, please present them now,” he says—y’know, like an English professor.

Well, I do have some ‘last words’, actually, and even though it makes me look sappy and stupid, I say, “I won’t tell anyone you don’t want me to. You can trust that.”

 Frazer stares at me for a while, and sighs with this sort of light but tense air—like I’m a five-year-old trying to convince him I saw fairies last night. Notebook equipped, he scrawls down something else, holds out his hand like he’s gonna give it to me, then just places it down on the desk like before. And also like before, I slowly pick it up. Author’s note: “Don’t read it until I leave.”

I open my mouth. “Tha—”

“Don’t. Say. A word.” He lifts a finger. “I am going to leave. We are going to forget this ever happened. If you say one word to me about this note, I will tear off your limbs and use them as hockey sticks.” He’s about a foot away from the door. “That is a promise.”

There, right there. _That’s_ Frazer Howell. Tyrant. Ass on a stick. I can’t help but laugh.

“This is no laughing matter.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m sorry.” I tip my nose like a hat. “You have my word.”

He narrows his eyes. I widen mine (I raise my eyebrows).

“I bid you farewell.”

Then he’s up-up and out the door. I look over the note, folded like discount origami. _This dude_. It takes about a minute just to _un_ fold.

And there, in his neat little handwriting: ‘ _Good luck on your rehearsals_.’

That—from Frazer, the dude who could probably end your life without remorse? Huh. I guess that’s kinda cute.


End file.
